by Kathy
"Is he?" Meg asked.
"A damned good goldsmith? I'm no judge, Meg. But he'd have had to be to satisfy Dan."
"True."
Her uncle studied her downcast face. "What is it, Meg?" he asked gently. "You needn't make a decision immediately; it will take some time to prove the will. What's really worrying you about this man?"
She hadn't meant to tell him. It sounded so absurd— Frances's wild accusation, Riley's reaction. But George had always been able to read her mind. As she stumbled through the story, she felt as though she had emptied her mind of something that lay festering within it, infecting every other thought.
His reaction was swift and comforting. "Meg, that's nonsense. Dan was ninety years old—"
"Ninety!"
"He'd always lied about his age," George said, with a faint smile. "Not that it mattered. Eighty-two, ninety—he was old, Meg. He died a natural death."
"Was there . . ."
It took him a while to understand what she meant, and a look of horrified disbelief transformed his face. "An autopsy? You know there wasn't. There was no reason for one. You can talk to Dr. Schwartz if you like."
"No, no. I don't know why I asked that, I guess I'm just being morbid."
Her disclaimer didn't have the effect she had intended; her uncle continued to look disturbed. He began fingering the objects on the desk. "Sometimes I think Frances is more trouble than she's worth. You ought to know better than to take anything she says seriously; but if she's spreading this around town . . . I'm afraid there are some people who would take it seriously."
"Surely not."
Her uncle raised his eyes from the small cardboard box whose lid he was unconsciously lifting and replacing. "You did—seriously enough to mention it to me. Mr. Riley isn't popular, and you know small-town gossip."
"You don't believe they would actually do anything ... do you?"
"There hasn't been a lynching in these parts for centuries," her uncle said lightly. "No, my dear, I don't think they would do anything. Forget it. Or, better still, talk to Darren Blake. And I'll drop a casual word to Frances that she could be sued for defamation of character if she doesn't control her imagination."
"Good." There was no more to be said, and no time for more; her grandmother would be coming down shortly. Meg was about to rise when a gleam of warm metallic color caught her eye, from inside the box her uncle was absently turning in his hands. "What's that?" she asked. "Something that escaped the eagle eye of the tax man?"
"You have an eagle eye yourself." Her uncle handed her the box. "It's obviously old, but that's all I can tell; you know more about these things than I do. It came in the mail today."
"In the mail?" Meg repeated wonderingly. She took the ring out of its box and held it to the light.
The heavy gold of the hoop had the soft glow of age and long handling. Instead of being set with gems, the flat bezel was intricately carved and coated with enamel. Black-enameled lettering twined around the hoop.
"It's old, all right," Meg murmured. "Probably seventeenth century. Does the top . . ."
It did; the catch yielded to the pressure of her fingernail, and the top opened. Her uncle leaned across the desk. "I didn't see that. What is it, a poison ring?"
"No." Meg turned the ring so that he could see what lay inside the opened top—a skeleton, scarcely an inch long, carved with exquisite precision and coated with white enamel. The oblong shape of the bezel, she now realized, was that of a coffin.
George was fascinated. "It's beautifully made, isn't it? But what kind of person would wear a grisly thing like that?"
"It could be a memento mori ring," Meg said slowly. "A reminder of death, literally; our ancestors weren't so much morbid as more realistic than we—willing to face facts. Or a memorial ring, left to a surviving relative—son, husband, wife, whatever—by someone who died. There's an inscription on the shank, but I can't quite . . ." She reached into her pocket for her loupe and focused it. The lettering was not only small, but in ornate Gothic script and a foreign language. It took some time for her to puzzle it out. " 'Hier lieg' ich, Und wart' auf dich . . .' Here I lie, and . . . and . . ."
"German," her uncle said interestedly. "There's a German dictionary in the library—"
"I don't need a dictionary. 'Here I lie, and wait for you.' That's what it says."
"Strange ideas of sentiment those old Germans had," George said with a grin.
"They weren't the only ones." All at once Meg had the impression that the object she held had changed its texture, from smooth metal to something rougher and more brittle—like old bone. Involuntarily her fingers released their grip; the ring dropped onto the desk, where it bounced and rolled until George slapped his hand down on it.
"Who sent it?" she asked.
"I don't know. It came in today's mail, in one of those padded envelopes, but there was no return address."
"The envelope was addressed to you?"
"It must have been, or Frances wouldn't have put it on my desk. . . . What are you doing?"
"The wastebasket has been emptied." Meg straightened, but did not return to her chair.
"Of course. Whatever Frances's other failings, she runs the house efficiently." Her brusque questions and obvious agitation had left him more bewildered than offended. "Was this something you were expecting? If I opened your mail by mistake I apologize, I've gotten into the habit of assuming that anything on my desk is meant for me. There was no message—"
"Oh, but there was," Meg said. " 'Here I lie and wait for you.' You, Uncle George."
Her uncle stared at her as if she had made an obscene suggestion. "Me?"
"You. And 'ich—I—' " She indicated the ring, which lay on its side with the top still up. The tiny skeleton shone pale against the black-enamel lining of its coffin.
"Oh! You mean. . . ." Comprehension dawned on him; he transferred his incredulous stare to the ring.
"I mean it's a threat, Uncle George."
George sat back in his chair. "Now, Meg," he said, in the soothing voice one employs when speaking to a frightened child. "You're letting your imagination run away with you. Small wonder, after the last few days—but whatever gave you such a morbid idea?"
Meg hesitated. She couldn't admit the truth—that the "morbid idea" had seemed to come from outside herself, like a distant, dictatorial voice. That was morbid. It must have been her subconscious at work, using data she couldn't consciously recall. "What other explanation is there?"
Instead of answering, George looked toward the door. Meg heard it too—the faint creak of hinges. She swung around.
The door opened. "It's a fair cop," said Cliff. "I got so interested in the conversation I leaned against the door. Relax, coz."
Meg dropped into her chair. Her uncle began, "Of all the contemptible—"
"I know, I know." Cliff sauntered into the room and perched on a corner of the desk. "Eavesdropping is not nice. However, it can be very informative."
"Why didn't you just walk in?" George demanded. "You usually do."
"I wasn't sure you'd continue this absolutely fascinating conversation," Cliff admitted. Eyebrows and lips were quirked in one of his maddening smiles, but Meg realized he was not amused. He picked up the ring and held it to the light. "Charming little item. Lifelike portrait. Touching sentiment. Why didn't you tell me about this, Dad?"
"I saw no reason to. Meg is tired and overwrought. There must be some innocent explanation."
The speech was so stiff and artificial that Meg wondered whether her suggestion had surprised him quite as much as he pretended. Cliff's eyebrows edged up another half inch. "Oh, yeah? Can you think of one?"
George looked as if he would have preferred to tell his son where to go and what to do to himself when he got there, but he restrained himself. "Perhaps someone wants to sell his collection."
"So he sends you a sample through the mail, without a return address or covering letter?" He turned to Meg. "Any idea where this mig
ht have come from?"
Meg stiffened. "If you're implying—"
"If I thought you'd sent it I'd say so," Cliff replied coolly. "You're the authority on this type of jewelry, aren't you?"
"I'm not an authority on anything. Oh—do you mean the posy rings? I collect them, yes. But this isn't—"
"This has a verse inscribed on it, like the posy rings. What's the difference?"
"Clifford, I don't like your attitude," George exclaimed. "You have no business talking to Meg in that tone of voice."
"I don't mind, Uncle George. He has every right to be concerned about you." And, Meg added to herself, she much preferred Cliff's blunt questions to his smirks and insinuations. She turned to her cousin. "The posies are betrothal or wedding or friendship rings—tokens of affection. I suppose the mourning rings could be viewed in the same light, given the attitudes of the times in which they were made. Life spans were shorter, child mortality was high, people died at home instead of in hospitals. And they believed, sincerely and unquestioningly, in an afterlife. Marriage was for eternity; husbands and wives didn't think, they knew they would find their partners waiting for them at the Pearly Gate."
"Now that's a gruesome thought," Cliff began.
He was back in character, Meg thought. She frowned at him. "Dan bought quite a bit of Victorian mourning jewelry in the line of business, but to the best of my knowledge he never specialized in it. Some of it has become very collectible—hair jewelry, for instance."
"But this isn't Victorian." Casually Cliff slipped the ring onto his finger. It fit perfectly, and Meg repressed a shudder. He went on, "If I'm any judge, this is older and much more valuable. Not the kind of thing a local yokel would find in his granny's jewel box."
"You seem to be something of an authority yourself," Meg said.
"One picks up odd information here and there," Cliff murmured.
"Well, you're right. This is probably seventeenth century— German, obviously—and it is more likely to have come from a collection than from a hoard of family jewelry. Are you implying that it belongs in one of Dan's collections? Or mine?"
"Isn't that the most logical conclusion?"
"Nonsense," his father said brusquely. "There are thousands of people who collect antique jewelry. Time's getting on, Meg. Your grandmother will be waiting for us."
"You can't just drop the subject," Meg protested. "Maybe I'm wrong—I hope to God I am—but we ought to make an effort to investigate. I'm ninety-nine percent sure this—this object didn't come from my collection, but I'll check the inventory anyway."
"Not tonight, you won't." George rose. "You're going to have tea with your grandmother, eat a good dinner and go to bed."
Cliff got up from the corner of the desk, where he had perched. "Dad's right, coz, you've had a busy day. Anyway, it will be a waste of time. This adorable object"—he stretched out his hand, admiring the ring—"didn't come from your collection."
"Take it off," Meg said sharply.
"Must I? Don't you think it's me?"
"Cliff," his father said wearily.
Grinning, Cliff returned the ring to its box. He had always enjoyed teasing her, but Meg had a feeling he had observed her superstitious reaction to the ring. Not for any reward would she have slipped it on her finger, and it gave her a cold chill to see anyone else wear it.
"I hope I need not mention that I don't want Mary to hear of this," George said, fixing his son with a stern look.
"You need not," Cliff said, visibly resentful. Then the familiar, hateful smile came back, and he turned to Meg. "Aren't you going to ask me where I think the ring came from? No? Well, I'll tell you anyway. I'll give you five-to-one odds—"
"No, you won't." Meg headed for the door. "I'm not interested in guessing games, nor in your opinion."
Cliff didn't persist. He didn't have to, she knew what he had been about to say.
Cliff offered to accompany her to the store the next morning. It was an offer she literally couldn't refuse, short of having him bound and gagged and locked in his room. After she had turned down the suggestion that he drop her off, saying she preferred to walk, he blandly announced that he could use the exercise too. He didn't look it. He had his father's slim, wiry build, but while age and sedentary habits had thickened George's body, Cliff's was solid muscle. He was wearing casual clothes that morning, a knit shirt and form-fitting jeans, and the form they fit was definitely worth displaying.
The distance was only a little over a mile. The Manor had once been on the outskirts of town. Now new housing developments and shopping centers surrounded but did not enclose it; the Mignots owned almost fifty acres, and they had hung on to them despite the increasingly tempting prices offered by developers.
When they left the shade of the tree-lined driveway Meg reached into her purse for her sunglasses. It was a beautiful summer morning; the fresh green foliage and bright flower beds, the wide lawns and old houses looked like a picture postcard of small-town America. As they passed a white frame house whose front porch was shaded by climbing roses, Cliff waved and called out. "Hi, there, Mrs. Henderson. Nice day."
Meg saw the face squinting at them from behind the veil of roses and produced a halfhearted wave of her own. There was no response. Cliff had lengthened his stride; she had to run a few steps to catch up with him.
"What's your hurry?" she asked.
"If you hesitate she insists you come in for a chat. Don't you remember her?"
"I remember her. I must admit I hoped she had gone to a better world."
"Only the good die young."
"So they say. Why were you being so charming to the old bat?"
"I like to keep on good terms with people," Cliff said. "You never know when they can be useful to you."
"I hope you'll keep that in mind this morning."
"Why, darling, whatever do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. And I know why you insisted on coming with me. Why do you think Mr. Riley was the one who sent that ring to your father?"
Cliff began, "Logically—"
"Logic has nothing to do with it. You don't—you can't— prove anything or you would have told Uncle George. What have you got against the man?"
"He has no sense of humor."
"Damn it, Cliff—"
"I might just as reasonably ask why you're so set on defending him."
"I have this silly idea that a person is innocent until proven guilty, that's why."
"You have a weakness for the underdog, that's why," Cliff retorted. "Far be it from me to criticize such a charmingly naive view of the world. I'll leave you to make up your own mind about Riley. You will anyway. I'm afraid my own profession has made me somewhat more cynical about the human race."
"What do you do for a living, anyway?"
"You mean you haven't followed my career with affectionate interest?" His eyebrows lifted. "I followed yours. Your meteoric rise in the advertising business has been a source of inspiration to—"
"Oh, shut up, Cliff. Why can't you answer a simple question?"
"There's no simple answer, darling. I've been a bartender, lifeguard, waiter, chauffeur, deckhand, reporter, actor—summer stock and off Broadway—"
"I never saw your name listed."
"The off-Broadway role was that of the corpse in a thriller," Cliff explained with a grin. "You didn't let me finish. Musician, gigolo—they called it an escort service—construction worker, truck driver—"
"I get the picture. An all-round Renaissance man."
"My father prefers a shorter, less flattering term. He wanted me to study accounting."
"I see."
"I thought you might," Cliff said. "At the moment I am more or less employed in an insurance agency. They were very sympathetic to my request for prolonged personal leave, possibly because they hope I'll prolong it indefinitely."
Further conversation was impossible; they were approaching the town center, and Cliff had a greeting for everyone they met. Meg could only murmu
r and smile in reply to the people who called her by name and expressed their sympathy. She was annoyed by Cliffs attempt to suggest a parallel between his situation and her own. Rejecting his father's demands didn't mean he had to turn himself into a drifter.
When they reached the store she stopped short, gripped by poignant memories. It was exactly as she remembered it: the faded green awning, the time-darkened oak door with its delicately etched glass. The show window was draped in dark blue velvet; Dan always maintained velvet showed off gems to their best advantage. There were only half a dozen pieces in the window: a heavy gold watch chain, double-linked; a set of wedding and engagement rings, rubies in an elaborate gold setting. . . . She couldn't take in the rest of them, her eyes were blurred.
Hoping Cliff hadn't observed her brief lapse, she walked to the door, which was set back from the sidewalk and the storefront. Quickly as she had moved, he was before her, flinging the door wide. Chimes rang a familiar, silvery peal.
The interior, cool and shadowy after the bright sunlight of outdoors, looked like Ali Baba's treasure cave. Glittering gems and gleaming metal reflected the soft glow of the lamps. They were of two types, ordinary electric bulbs and fluorescent strip lighting. Another of Dan's lectures came back to her: rubies glow brighter and more brilliant under electric lights, but those same lights darken sapphires, except for the finest Ceylon and Kashmir stones. Strip lighting for sapphires. . . .
A woman behind the counter to the right looked up when they entered. For almost the first time that day Meg saw a face she recognized, and when she said, "Hello, Candy. You haven't changed a bit," she was conscious of the irony in the trite greeting. The heavy, inexpertly applied makeup didn't soften the other woman's angular jawline, or render her long, mournful face any less equine. She had painted bright crimson lips over the narrow outlines of her own.