by Kathy
Meg didn't have to open the book to know she had found what she was looking for. She paused for a moment to puzzle over the letters following the artist's name. Fellow of the Royal Academy of India? Was there such a thing? She had never heard of it, which proved nothing. Possibly it had been mere "swank" on the part of an itinerant and exiled Englishman.
Mr. Bennett had been a competent if uninspired artist. In its way the book was rather charming; some of the plates had been hand-tinted, and if the drawings lacked originality, they appeared to be almost photographically exact. The descriptions of the pieces, on pages facing the drawings, were equally pedantic. "A gold collar or necklace of fourteen square plaques, eleven linked in a chain with three pendants; the latter centred each with a ruby approximately one inch in diameter and hung with pearls; each piece in the body of the chain set with sapphires and diamonds in a frame of twisted gold. . . ." He knew more about art than he did about gems, Meg thought, and he had the descriptive powers of a plumber. The frame of twisted gold was a masterwork of intricate openwork, the sapphires and diamonds formed flower shapes. She should know, she had seen the original.
All the pieces in Dan's hidden cache were shown. There were many other objects in the book, and Meg's imagination reeled as she considered the possibilities. Was the "armband of twisted red silk cords with tassels of pearls and a large oval diamond approximately two inches by three inches" tucked away in a secret drawer somewhere in the house, along with the "breast ornament or pendant" whose most conspicuous feature was a peacock with a jeweled tail and a body formed of a single emerald?
Probably not. She thought she knew what had become of the diamond, and possibly the emerald as well. If she was right, she had found the answer to one question, only to raise a host of others that were even more disturbing. Daniel Mignot's past had come back to haunt his descendants, and it held something more dangerous than mythical priests avenging a desecrated idol.
It was 2 a.m. before Meg finished her research in the library and put away the books she had used. She hadn't found all the information she needed, nor proof that her suspicions were correct. But she hadn't found anything that would dispel them.
Counting on Frances to awaken her next morning as usual, she was horrified to see the time when she finally opened her eyes. The housekeeper added insult to injury by waylaying her as she trotted through the hall trying to button her blouse and find her car keys at the same time.
"Where do you think you're going, missy? You get on out there and eat your breakfast before you leave this house."
"I'm late. Why didn't you wake me up?"
"It's Saturday. I was just doing you a favor letting you sleep in, since you've been working so hard—"
The housekeeper's air of injured innocence annoyed her even more. "The store is open on Saturday too, as you know very well."
"I can't read people's minds," Frances said with a sniff. "It's hard enough to do everything I'm expected to do around here without getting insulted and cursed when I try to do somebody a favor."
"I didn't. . . . Frances, I haven't got time for this. Or breakfast. Goodbye."
Because it was Saturday and still early for shoppers, she was able to park in front of the store. As she pulled into the curb she saw that the locksmith had been true to his word. He had almost finished with the front door, and he graciously accepted her apology. "It's okay, the manager was here. He said he wasn't sure what you wanted, so I went ahead like we discussed it yesterday."
Meg had expected she would have to listen to a long unnecessary explanation and admire the turning of the screws; after she had done so she went inside. Riley was standing behind the counter. His folded arms, strongly marked features and rigid pose irresistibly suggested an old-time cigar-store Indian, and when his lips parted, Meg half expected him to say "How."
"Good morning," he said.
"Sorry I'm late. I meant to tell you about the new locks."
"You didn't have to call him. I could have installed them."
"That's silly, you have more important things to do. I would have consulted you, only. . . ." Meg glanced at the locksmith, who had abandoned all pretense of going on with his work and was listening interestedly. "Have you got any coffee made?" she asked Riley. "I came away without breakfast, and I could use a cup."
He looked as if he could too. The signs of sleeplessness were slight, but visible—heavy eyelids, a smear of sickly pallor across his high cheekbones. "In the shop," he said briefly, and gestured her toward the door.
By leaving the door open they could keep an eye on the store and still converse without being overheard. Meg perched on a stool and accepted the cup Riley handed her. The coffee was the way Dan liked it—black as sin, strong enough to melt a spoon. After she had taken a few sips and waited in vain for Riley to speak, she said, "I'm sorry I didn't consult you about the locks, but something happened yesterday that convinced me it should be done without delay.
"Oh, yeah?"
"Candy dropped in to see me."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Did you get her keys back?"
"She never had keys to the store."
"Oh, yeah?"
As humor it was on the same level as the taunts of first graders. Why it should strike Riley as funny she never knew, then or later; the effect was so dazzling she could only gape at him. His lips curved and parted, displaying even white teeth; his eyes turned from shadowed brown to brilliant hazel. Even the arrogant nose seemed to shrink into proper dimensions.
"Yeah," he said. "One of us—Dan or I—always let her in."
"Oh." Meg tried to get a grip on herself. His amusement had subsided; that helped. But what an incredible transformation! It's just the contrast, she told herself; his normal expression is so forbidding. . . .
She was saved by the locksmith demanding compliments for completing the installation on the front door. Meg sent him to the back, in spite of Riley's objection that only he and Dan had ever had keys to that door, and they moved themselves and their coffee into the store. By that time Riley had his normal poker face back, and she was able to speak coherently.
"I don't care how many people officially had keys to what," she explained. "Candy is a snoop, and Dan was notoriously careless about leaving his belongings lying around. It only costs a few bucks to have keys copied."
Riley was obviously distracted by the presence of a stranger in his private preserve; he kept his eyes fixed on the open door to the shop, but his response was, for him, almost gracious. "Having the locks changed was a good idea. I should have thought of it myself. I'm not going to say what Candy is or is not—it's my word against hers, and there's no reason why you should take mine—but for what it's worth, she hasn't got anything on me."
"Has she got anything on Dan?"
The blunt question got a reaction, but not the one she had expected. Riley's eyes narrowed to slits. "Why ask me?"
"Damned if I know," Meg said in exasperation. "Trying to extract information from you is tougher than getting classified documents from the government. Dan was no plaster saint, do you think I don't know that? He might have told you things he wouldn't tell his innocent little female grandchild. I can't protect him, or myself, unless I know what I'm up against."
"That's reasonable," Riley admitted.
"Gee, thanks."
"I can't think of anything that need concern you." He read her expression and added hastily, "For God's sake don't yell, that character will hear you. Sure, Dan pulled a few fast ones in his time, but if the IRS couldn't pin anything on the old fox, a half-wit like Candy wouldn't have a clue."
"I'm not worried about the IRS."
"Worried?"
"Strange, isn't it? I have worries, just like normal people. Candy was acting peculiarly. As if she knew something I didn't know."
"But there isn't anything. . . ." Riley paused. After a moment he said, "Not about Dan. No way. She came crying to him, asking for a job, after she left her husband; reminded him that she'd been
your best friend back in grade school—"
"Best friend! She hated my guts."
"Oh, yeah?" A faint but potent repetition of the smile made Meg's senses stagger. "I sort of suspected she was exaggerating. But Dan felt sorry for her, hired her, trained her. . . . He never would have confided in her, though. Wouldn't even trust her with a set of keys."
The chimes heralded the first customer of the day and Riley retreated, cup in hand. He left Meg only slightly reassured about Candy, but giddily optimistic about her relations with him. He had never talked so freely. Or smiled.
Business was brisk. By the time Meg had dealt with the customers, the locksmith and the mailman, she was beginning to think about lunch. She was looking through a catalog of findings and materials when the door opened, and she looked up to see her uncle.
"Is there something wrong with the chimes?" he asked, squinting at the silvery shapes over the door.
"I'm glad someone else noticed," Meg said. "Riley insists they sound fine to him."
George closed the door. He was wearing a tropical wool suit of pale gray only a shade darker than his hair; the color showed off his tan and his deep blue eyes. He's a good-looking man for his age, Meg thought affectionately; what a pity he never married again.
"Before you can ask," George announced, "I'm on my way. However, I could be persuaded to take a certain beautiful young businesswoman to lunch before I leave."
"No more excuses, Uncle George. You look particularly handsome today, it would be a shame to waste it on me."
"You're looking rather sensational yourself. Is that the famous necklace?"
"Yes, isn't it gorgeous? I decided to start wearing some of the stock. This is the second pair of earrings I've had on today. Sold the first pair right off my ears."
"Is this for sale?" His fingers brushed the heavy golden coil of the necklace.
"Sorry. Not even to my favorite uncle. When customers admire it I show them some of Riley's other work. Could I interest you in a garnet brooch, sir? I predict that within a few years this designer's work will triple in value."
George smiled and shook his head. "You are a very persuasive salesperson, miss, but I'd better run along. You're not alone here, are you? Where is this brilliant designer?"
"In his lair, as usual." Meg nodded toward the shop. "Uncle George, you're starting to fuss again."
"But if someone tried to hold you up—"
"Then I quaver loudly, 'Please put that gun away,' and Riley comes rushing to the rescue. Or, if he has better sense than I give him credit for, he calls the cops." Meg grinned. "The intercom is on, he can hear every word we say. Hey, Riley, Uncle George says the chimes are off-key. I told you you were tone deaf."
"Well, that's—that's reassuring," George said. "Uh—I must go. Have a nice time this evening with Darren."
"Thank you." Meg walked with him to the door, where he paused. "You and Mr. Riley seem to be on excellent terms."
"It's still somewhat one-sided, but I'm making progress."
"That's good. Stores have been held up, you know, even here, and a jewelry store. ... All right, I'll stop fussing!"
"There's no need to be concerned, Uncle George. Look—I even had new locks installed."
"Excellent. I meant to suggest that. Dan was always handing out keys to people."
"That doesn't sound like Dan." Meg frowned. "Who had them?"
"I exaggerate," George admitted. "Mike Potter had one, I know that. I'm not sure about Kate and the others."
"I'm not worried about being robbed by Mike Potter," Meg said with a smile. "Run along, Uncle George. Have fun."
The discordance of the chimes as the door closed blended with a murmur from Meg's empty stomach. For some reason, though, she was no longer in the mood for a leisurely lunch at Kate's. For some reason? She knew perfectly well what it was—a growing sense that she was under constant surveillance, not only by people who were inimical toward her but by another group whose motives could only be benevolent. It had been completely out of character for Mike Potter to leave the store in order to walk her home. It was too much of a coincidence to assume he had happened to glance out the door at the moment when she had closed up. He must have been watching for her. And now Uncle George, just happening to drop by on his way out of town. His definition of a weekend, from Saturday noon to Sunday evening, was also unorthodox. Had he postponed his departure until Cliff could take over? Cliff and Uncle George at the house, and in town another group of watchers. Located as it was, right on Main Street, the jewelry store was surrounded by the old gang—Barby's beauty shop just around the corner on Motter Avenue, Ed's bakery in the next block east, the hardware store a block west and Kate's practically across the street. If she had gone east instead of west, would Ed have bustled out to find out where she was headed?
Apparently one of the few people who weren't interested in her activities was Riley. Meg turned to stare at the closed door. She had hoped he would be moved, by her good-natured baiting, if not by her compliments, to come out and act civil. Socializing Riley was obviously going to be a long, slow process. Meg was tempted to yell "Fire" just to see what, if anything, would happen.
Half an hour later she decided to try a less dramatic method. "I'm going to the carry-out for a sandwich, Riley. Can I get you anything?"
He had manners enough to reply to a direct question. He actually came to the door. "Aren't you going to Kate's?"
"I will if you want something special," Meg said agreeably.
"No. I just. . . . Well, if you don't mind—some kind of a sandwich. I don't care what."
Meg closed in on him, remorselessly pleasant. "Tuna salad? Ham? Corned beef?"
"Corned beef would be fine."
"Rye or pumpernickel? Pickle?"
"It doesn't matter."
He stood four-square in the doorway, blocking not only her forward progress but her view. Meg stood on tiptoe and leaned to one side. "Mustard? A soda?"
"Ms. Venturi, what the hell are you doing?"
"I'm trying to see over your shoulder," Meg explained. She was so close to him that her hair brushed his cheek. "I'm dying to know what you're working on."
Riley lifted his hand to his cheek. "Why don't you just ask?"
"Riley, can I see what you're doing?"
"Certainly."
Meg went to the workbench. The necklace that lay there was a beautiful old piece; sullenly glowing pyrope garnets formed a series of linked star shapes from which depended other, larger stars. She turned a disappointed face toward Riley, and he let out a brief bark of sound that might have been a laugh. No smile, though. "I'm catching up on the repairs. Pieces like that take time; it's almost impossible to match the color and the cut of old Bohemian garnets."
"Not to mention lining the socket with foil." Meg held her breath as she leaned closer to the foil scraps and the tray of small loose stones, for fear of blowing them away. "These are old stones, from pieces that were beyond repair?"
"Right. Satisfied?"
"It's fascinating, but I was hoping you were working on one of your own designs."
"Look, Ms. Venturi—"
"If you don't want me to call you Mister Riley, you'll have to find a less formal name for me. Anything but 'hey, you.' '
"Uh—yeah. I hope you don't mind, but I hate having people look at my work until I'm finished with it. Just a foible of mine."
"Oh. All right. I can understand that." Meg went to the door. "Corned beef, pickle, on rye."
If she had hoped they would enjoy a sociable lunch a deux she was doomed to disappointment. Riley opened the door just long enough to accept the food and mumble "thanks" before he closed it, practically in her face. Philosophically Meg retired to the office with her sandwich. She had never dealt with anyone quite like Riley; most men were only too eager to respond to her advances. Not that she wanted that kind of response. The game she was playing was an intriguing challenge in itself, breaking down his defenses to a point where he would admit her to h
is friendship but not expect anything more serious. Meg grinned and licked crumbs off her fingers. If Riley ever made a pass at her, she would probably faint from sheer surprise.
Somehow she was not surprised when Barby "just happened to drop in" a while later. "I got a cancellation," the older woman explained breezily. "Thought maybe you'd like a wash and set."
"Does my hair look that bad?"
"Oh, no, honey, I didn't mean that. You've got beautiful hair, it's so dark and thick and healthy. I'd love to try a new style on you, that one is so severe. Since you've got a date tonight—"
"It's not a date, it's a business appointment," Meg said. "How did you know about it?"
People who have face-lifts should learn not to blush, Meg thought, watching her old friend's face. "Well, it was just an idea," Barby said. "If you change your mind, let me know."
"Thanks, Barby. I appreciate the offer."
They aren't very good at this, Meg thought, after Barby had retired in visible disorder. Was Darren another of her self-appointed guardians? He wasn't the man to gossip indiscriminately, especially about a client's affairs. Barby's source might have been Mrs. Babcock. Like most of the other older inhabitants, she probably had her hair done at Barby's.
During breaks between customers Meg went on with the job she had set for herself, going through Dan's files to see if there was any record of the maharajah's jewels. Only the past ten years of business activity had been put into the computer. A dusty, tiring search of storage boxes turned up several old ledgers, but the oldest only dated back to the late sixties. She'd have to go farther back than that, Meg thought—much farther. If she was right, Dan had acquired those remarkable pieces over forty years ago. He might not have cared to leave a record of how he acquired them, but he would have had to account in some way for his possession of certain of the pieces—the ones he had broken up in order to market the gems separately. The diamond known as the Sun of Ceylon and the Ellendorf emerald were the most famous of the great gemstones Daniel Mignot had handled; more than anything else, they had been responsible for propelling him into the front ranks of the world's famous jewelers.