The Glass Thief (A Jaya Jones Treasure Hunt Mystery Book 6)

by Gigi Pandian

  “That’s my fault,” I said, closing the door and taking a seat. “He found an angle to his project yesterday, and it’s related to one of the projects a student is working on in my advanced seminar, so he wanted to consult me—”

  “Group work isn’t allowed. That wouldn’t be fair to the other students.”

  “Becca and Wesley aren’t working together. They’re doing completely different projects on an old historical document they found at the library. Something he couldn’t have anticipated finding. Wesley is nearly done with his proposal for his new project, so if he gets it to you today, can you give him feedback?”

  Naveen blinked at me. “Of course not. That wouldn’t be fair to his classmates who followed the rules.”

  I sighed. Naveen Veeran had no imagination, but I’ll grant he was a rigorous scholar. His first book came in at over 500 pages, nearly half of which was made up of its bibliography, and was titled The Indian Subcontinent from 1937-1947: A Historical Research Methods Case Study. His assignments for his students mirrored his own work.

  He’d also saved my job when I’d been falsely accused of plagiarism. He knew the truth, so he couldn’t let it go even if it would have meant his own chances of tenure would be greatly improved without me around.

  Naveen rested his elbows on his desk. They were, of course, protected by suede elbow pads. “Why are you here, Jaya?”

  “I just told you.”

  “May I offer you tea?” He stood before waiting for my reaction.

  “Um, sure.”

  “Students need discipline. Rules.” He poured hot water from an electric kettle over chai tea bags in porcelain teacups. “We need to guide them.”

  “And inspire them, rather than stifle their ideas because they’re not perfect.” I accepted a cup and breathed in the spicy, sweet scent.

  “What better way to inspire than by sharing how much we love our jobs and being here? Which clearly you don’t.”

  “Excuse me?” I hoped I wouldn’t accidentally crush the delicate teacup. “My students can clearly see how inspired I am by history. But our jobs? That’s not what’s important. These are undergrads. They’re not training to be professors. We need to show them the value of history first. Get them excited about it. They’re several steps away from deciding if they want to become history professors.”

  Naveen studied my face as he blew on his tea. “I’ve submitted my application. I wasn’t sure if you’d heard. I thought that’s why you were really here. You’ve been so busy that I haven’t had a chance to tell you myself. But I wanted you to know.”

  I knew which application he meant. Tenure.

  “Thanks for letting me know. I appreciate it.” It was true. Naveen was many things, but he believed in playing fair by the rules as they were established.

  I raised the glass to my lips, but couldn’t force myself to swallow a sip.

  Back in my office, I emailed Wesley with the bad news that Naveen wouldn’t be reviewing his proposal. I offered to look at his notes myself if it would be helpful. If this were a real-life project, I’d be able to help more. But based on the structure Naveen had laid out for the students I didn’t want to lead Wesley astray.

  I was already leading myself astray, and I knew it. By accepting Rick Coronado’s challenge, I was not only risking tenure, but opening myself up to whatever danger had nearly killed Rick seven years ago.

  Chapter 9

  A ghostly fog was descending over the hills as I shifted gears on the winding road.

  Why was Rick Coronado writing me a ghost story? I alternated between wondering where Gabriela’s story would go and where my own was going. Luckily I was heading to see the man who always helped me see things clearly.

  I was meeting Lane at a dinner party in the Berkeley hills. I was disappointed we wouldn’t have time on our own until later that night, especially after he hadn’t been able to make it to the restaurant the previous night.

  Grizzly Peak Boulevard twisted sharply, and I shifted gears again. This was the kind of road my roadster was made for. I’d inherited the classic sports car years ago, and I made good use of it. Driving along the cliff-side road winding through the Berkeley Hills, I had a front row view of the sun descending past the San Francisco Bay. Several cars had pulled onto the side of the road at lookout points, a smart move by the city, because without them drivers would have doubtlessly eased their cars onto unstable edges of the winding road, or accidentally driven right over the edge as their imaginations caught sight of the luminous orange sky and twinkling lights. A city of contrasts, like all cities are. Vast wealth and abject poverty, tourist trails and hole-in-the-wall restaurants only the locals know, skyscrapers stretching toward the sky and the remnants of sunken abandoned ships pressed into the silt of the Bay. My headlights cut through the fog that only partly obscured the view.

  Much like part of me wished for my Rick Coronado novel fix all in one sitting, I sometimes wished my real love life could have been as simple as a Gabriela Glass novel. A new man in each novel. No strings attached. Sometimes she got hurt, but she’d bounced back completely by the start of the next book.

  I didn’t really want that, though. I only wished the baggage of what came before didn’t exist with me and Lane. There had always been something both pushing us together and pulling us apart. Since the day we met a year and a half before in his cramped basement office, we’d walked the fine line of wariness and trust, angst and peace, frustration and fire.

  But always…always we fit together. I don’t mean physically, though that was part of it. I’d resigned myself to my fate of being short, but that’s why my head fit perfectly in the crook of his neck. But more important was how we understood each other at an unspoken level. He saw the real me that my brother and my best friend never could, even though I knew they loved me and I loved them dearly. I wasn’t nearly as practical or well adjusted as they imagined.

  I turned off the main road—using the word “main” loosely, as it was a narrow two-lane street with rare spots for cars to pass each other—and onto a lane barely wide enough for my roadster.

  The drive was familiar. Too familiar.

  As I rounded a sharp curve, I realized why. This was the same street where I’d looked at a house shortly after I moved to the Bay Area two years before. I’d already moved into my studio apartment, the semi-legal converted attic of my landlady Nadia’s Victorian house in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood of San Francisco. Tamarind had been apartment-hunting, and for fun one weekend we decided to go to all the open houses that looked interesting, even the ones that were ridiculously out of our price range. My favorite house was on this street. Or at the very least, one that looked a lot like this.

  The GPS told me I’d reached my destination. Lane had said I’d recognize it because it would be my favorite house on the hill. He was right. This was the house I’d fallen in love with when Tamarind and I had gone pretend house-hunting.

  I parked in a section of the street that seemed wide enough to prevent my side mirror being clipped as it had been so many times in San Francisco, and grabbed the bottle of Shiraz I’d brought for my mystery host.

  A wooden arch that reminded me of Red Fort in Delhi was the first view of the house a visitor was granted. The rosewood garden arch, carved in an ornate Mughal style, looked like it had sprung to life covered in ivy. Next to it were two small holes, but aside from the gift from the gophers, the landscaping was immaculate. It was even more perfect than when I’d looked at it.

  The arch was the entry point to the house, leading the way to a winding stone path flanked by desert plants, rose bushes, and softly glowing electric lights that looked more like fireflies than modern lighting. The house itself was Tudor, with a steeply pitched roof and half-timbered walls. It was neither huge nor small, but perfect.

  There was only one car in the driveway, and as I turned on the path, I didn’t
see many cars parked in the road. How small a dinner party were Lane’s friends having? I didn’t think I was too early. I walked up the narrow stone path, wondering what I was in for.

  The scent of a spicy curry reached my nose before my feet reached the door. Lemongrass and coconut. Lane opened the oversize unpainted wood front door. As usual, he had on the thick horn-rimmed glasses he wore to hide his distinctive cheekbones and distractingly handsome face. He kept his dark blond hair slightly long so it could fall over his eyes to shield half his face when it suited him. He looked as delicious as the food smelled.

  A Nina Simone song sounded from a distant speaker, but I didn’t hear voices behind him.

  “Are people in back watching the sunset?”

  “I thought a dinner party for the two of us was called for. We haven’t had enough time just for us lately.”

  I smiled “The offense of not coming to see me at the Tandoori Palace last night hardly calls for borrowing this perfect house to make a big apology.”

  “You look gorgeous tonight, Jones.” He took the wine and my coat, and closed the door from the chill.

  “Now I’m really worried.” I was dressed in my standard all-black outfit, from a black cashmere sweater down to black jeans and black three-inch stilettos. And of course my bob of black hair, that in spite of what Tamarind had said, was a couple of inches longer than when I’d met her.

  “That look on your face could lure a thousand sailors to their doom. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had a new mystery your mind is working on.”

  “It’s funny you mention sailors, because I’ve got two new problems I’m mulling over, one of which involves a man who might have been a sailor on a ship that sank at port during the California Gold Rush when all the men were abandoning their ships to go in search of gold. And the other…”

  He raised an eyebrow. “The other is clearly one that requires a glass of wine.”

  I gave him a brief kiss. “In a minute. Right now I’m just taking in this wonderful space. You knew how much I’d love this place, so you borrowed it from a friend who’s away…” That’s when I noticed the house wasn’t furnished. I pushed past Lane. I remembered the grand fireplace and an open floor plan leading to a modern kitchen with an island bigger than my kitchenette.

  I thought back to the two holes I’d assumed were from gophers. “This place is sitting empty. Wait, you removed a FOR SALE sign so the neighbors would think someone bought it?” It must have been a house-flipper who bought it when I’d looked at it. But when I saw his face… “You bought this house?”

  “Guilty.”

  The man I was hopelessly in love with.

  The person I trusted more than anyone else on the planet, and would have even if we hadn’t each saved each other’s lives countless times.

  The former jewel thief.

  Had just purchased my dream house.

  “You know I’ve been looking for somewhere more permanent to live,” he said. “Tamarind told me you’d fallen in love with this place. It was on the market again, so I went to an open house. As soon as I walked through the entryway arch, I’d fallen in love as well.”

  He was talking about the house, but looking at me as he said it. We both knew what he was saying.

  “You know how competitive the housing market is here,” he continued. “I had to move quickly, and they accepted my offer.”

  My gaze swept across the empty interior. Mostly empty interior. A jewelry box rested on the mantle. It was an approximation of the jewelry box I’d once owned before it had been smashed by an intruder. This one was less ornate, but more beautiful. Definitely hand crafted. I walked to the fireplace and ran my fingers over the carved wood.

  “I had it made for you,” Lane said. “I thought it could be a housewarming present.”

  “Housewarming?”

  “I was hoping you might move in here with me.”

  Chapter 10

  “Don’t answer yet,” Lane said. “Let me give you the rest of the tour.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me toward sliding doors that led to the backyard.

  The house was the highest one on the street. There was nothing obstructing our view down the steep hillside and outward across the bay toward San Francisco, Marin, and the hazy sunset. Lights from the cities below sparkled, and the distinctive skyline across the water looked like a living painting. The fog cut through the skyscrapers as it tumbled across the bay.

  “I haven’t signed the final paperwork yet, but this is what I’ve been busy with. This is why I told you I’d be tied up this week and couldn’t make it last night.”

  “This has been the strangest day.”

  “Which you’re certainly taking your time telling me about.”

  “You might have noticed someone has been distracting me.”

  “In more ways than one, I hope.” He swept me into his arms and kissed me. “I promise that’s the last of my distractions. Now, food, wine, or a tour?”

  “All three. Reverse order.”

  We went back inside, and Lane led me up the hardwood steps to the second floor. With the house sitting empty, I felt like I was creeping up the steps of a mansion in a Gabriela Glass novel.

  “You know Rick Coronado?” I asked.

  “The author whose books you hide behind the academic ones on your bookshelf?”

  “That obvious?”

  “Only because the academic books aren’t for show, so I’ve seen what’s behind them when you pull them off the shelf. I noticed after I read one of the articles about you where the reporter said they’d seen a beaten-up copy of Jaipur Glass in your bag. Or maybe it was Empire of Glass.”

  “Could have been either. I’ve got both. Rick Coronado read about my being a fan of his. It turns out he’s a fan of mine as well. He hasn’t written in years, but apparently I’ve inspired him to write again. He’s sending me draft chapters of his latest manuscript, asking for my feedback.”

  “Do I need to be jealous?” His lips ticked up into a smile that barely held back laughter.

  “You’re hilarious.”

  Rick Coronado was a literary heartthrob, so I couldn’t deny it was flattering. But I forgot all about the author and his manuscript as we stepped past a bathroom with a claw foot tub and into the master bedroom. Exposed hardwood beams dominated the sloping ceiling of the room, and the view was even more spectacular than the backyard. This alone would have commanded millions of dollars in the Bay Area.

  He slipped his fingers into mine. His hand was warm and strong. Standing here, this felt like home.

  Lane had an uprooted childhood like my own, which is one of the reasons we understood each other so well. His father cared more about business than his son, and dropped Lane into various international schools wherever he took the family, not caring about the impact on his wife and son. Both were expected to behave perfectly at the many important business parties his father threw, and Lane became good at playing the part. So good that he could drift from one language to another, and without knowing it fooled people into thinking he was a native speaker. As he learned to act the part, he grew more and more angry at his father. His father and colleagues cared more about money than anything else and used ruthless tactics to achieve their wealth.

  When I met him the summer before last, Lane was a graduate student getting his PhD in art history. I’d gone to talk with him to get his expert opinion about a piece of Indian jewelry I’d received under mysterious circumstances. Because of complications from helping me, he’d been forced to leave the grad school program. But we’d gone on to rescue several lost treasures together.

  I felt so at home here in this house with Lane at my side. Shouldn’t that have made me feel comforted? It didn’t. The feeling scared me.

  “I think I’ll take that wine now,” I said.

  We ran downstairs like kids, and I picked up the jew
elry box while Lane set up a picnic basket spread on the floor in front of the fireplace.

  As I lifted the wooden box, an object inside rattled. “This isn’t empty.”

  “Of course not. An empty box isn’t a very nice housewarming gift, is it? It needs something special inside.”

  I opened the lid. Inside sat a sparkling ruby bracelet. The dark red gem caught in the light and cast a beautiful reflection onto the side of the box. The box that nearly slipped through my fingers as I forgot I was holding it.

  This was one of the Rajasthan Rubies.

  I forgot to breathe.

  “Jones?”

  “You did take it,” I whispered.

  A shy grin spread across Lane’s face. “Two of the dozens we found. I saved them for you.”

  “Two?” I croaked. I turned my attention back to the jewelry box. Opening one of the smaller drawers with shaking fingers, I lifted a solitary raw ruby into the palm of my hand.

  I’d always wondered…When we’d found the Indian treasure in the Highlands of Scotland that summer we first met, the ground had already been disturbed.

  Five years before that, Lane quit his previous job. As an international jewel thief.

  I didn’t know the details of the traumatic experience that was the catalyst for his decision, but I knew he’d realized that many of the art and jewels he’d stolen from one wealthy collector had simply ended up in another private collection, away from historians and the public.

  “I can’t keep these. I mean, we can’t keep them. They should have been turned in with the rest.” But as I spoke the words, I didn’t want to let go of the thick gold band with an inset ruby or the ruby as big as my thumbnail. My hands trembled. I closed the jewelry box and set it back on the mantle. I kept the ruby and bracelet in my hand.

  “I’m not Robin Hood. I’ve never lied to you, Jones. I never claimed to be.”