by R J Fournier
“You must have some proof of purchase,” Helen suggested.
Marija sniffed. “A receipt I wrote myself? Unless they found a copy in Cécile’s papers—”
“I don’t understand,” Sam interrupted. “Why did you buy them in the first place?”
“I wanted to help Cécile. She’d lost her husband, and—”
“You can drop that one. No one’s going to believe you.”
She twisted toward Mikey as if excluding the others from the conversation. “I bought them for you. They’re your inheritance.”
“And you got them dirt cheap,” Mikey said.
“I demanded a reasonable discount for the risk, yes, but—”
“What risk if you didn’t believe they were stolen?” Sam asked.
“I suspected, perhaps. But without proof…” She waved a limp hand in the air.
Mikey let out a cruel laugh. “And you used your suspicion to persuade an old woman to sell for a fraction of what they were worth. You could’ve gone out the very next day and quadrupled your money.”
“I did it for you,” Marija countered. “You think you can be such an idealist. You say you don’t need money. Let me tell you, you’re in for a rude awakening.”
“Why didn’t you just sell them, and give Mike the money?” Sam asked.
“Money goes up and down. Economies collapse. You need something you can hold in your hand. Something that’s easy to move and easy to sell.”
“I wouldn’t take the money either,” Mikey said. “I told her she has to give them back now she knows they’re stolen.”
“She’s dead,” Marija said. “She doesn’t need them anymore.”
“Return them to the museum.”
“I paid for them.”
“You robbed her as much as her brother robbed the museum.”
“It was a fair price.”
“Only if you knew they were stolen. Otherwise, you took advantage of an old woman’s gullibility. Which was it? Are you a swindler or a receiver of stolen property? Either way, the police would be interested in how you got the jewels.”
“Are you threatening me?”
He glared at her. “Are you going to return them?”
“I won’t. Why should I?”
“Then we’re leaving. I was willing to go to prison for you, but I can’t go along with this.” He stood. “Come on, Sam.”
“Wait,” Marija begged.
But Mikey wouldn’t stay for more discussion. Sam looked apologetic but followed him out without a word.
Her hand trembling, Marija picked up her tea. The cup clinked softly against its saucer. “I apologize. You shouldn’t have been subjected to our family squabble.”
Helen moved beside Marija on the sofa. “My dear, that was more than a squabble.”
“I know.” Marija looked straight ahead, her head held high.
“You’re going to have to send them back. No matter how much they’re worth, they’re not worth losing your son.”
“Maybe it’s for the best. They’ve caused us so much trouble. That morning, it was true that Cécile caught Mike taking her persimmons but their argument wasn’t about that. It was about me…and the jewels. She accused me of stealing them. Someone—I understand it was Cheyne—had taken the fakes the day before. Mike knew about the fakes so he assumed that was what she meant. I went that afternoon to explain I hadn’t taken them. I guess poor Cécile confused them with the real ones.
“What did she say?”
“It was very upsetting. She yelled at me, cruel things.”
“So Mikey went to tell her to leave you alone. And when he found…”
“And I thought…”
Helen took her hand. “You love each other, but you certainly show it in strange ways.”
Looking at their joined hands, Marija almost smiled. “Do you remember, you took my hand like this that day at Christmas when you stopped by with cookies?”
Helen squeezed her hand in response.
“Do you think Mykolas was right?” Marija asked. “Will I get in trouble once the police know how I got them?”
“Well, you didn’t know for sure they were stolen, and you did know they weren’t involved with the murder. Not directly, anyway. And as far as underpaying Cécile, well, that was a long time ago and no one’s…” She couldn’t bring herself to say out loud the reason why Cécile DuQuenne wasn’t around to lodge a complaint. “But to be safe,” she went on, “you could send them back anonymously.”
“To whom? The museum? The police? I’m sure they could trace it back.”
“André DuQuenne has moved into Cécile’s house. You could hide them there and let him find them.”
“But Cheyne searched the house thoroughly. It would be suspicious.”
“What can I say? He missed a spot.”
“What if André keeps them?”
“That’s a risk but, if I’m a judge of character, I don’t think it’s much of one. He’ll do the right thing.”
“How will you do it?”
Helen hadn’t intended to volunteer. She wasn’t about to break into the house, but she didn’t trust Marija to follow through on her resolve. “I’ll figure something out.”
Marija led the way to one of the bookcases and removed a section of imitation volumes revealing a small safe. She twisted its dial back and forth five times, opened the door and took out a small, black-velvet bag. She handed it to Helen.
“Be careful. I was being honest when I said cabochons aren’t worth as much but these should be worth at least a quarter-million.”
Helen resisted the urge to open the bag and examine the stones. “I’ll keep them safe and I’ll figure a way to make sure André discovers them. We don’t want anyone else stumbling on them.”
Marija scowled but said nothing.
TWENTY-TWO
When Josh picked up Delyth for André DuQuenne’s housewarming party, he seemed determined to comply with his promise that it wasn’t a date. He called when he was five minutes away from her apartment so she could be ready and outside when he pulled up. They chatted on the way, but without a hint of anything more than two friends sharing a ride. What did she think a date should be like? More flirtatious, weighted with implied possibilities? Was this how married couple rode together, their conversation affable but colorless? Delyth didn’t know because her father had bolted, taking with him her touchstone of what a normal relationship might be like. She’d have to ask Helen about it.
André greeted them at the door. “I’m so happy you could make it.” To Josh, who’d brought bakery cookies, he said, “Helen’s organizing the food in the kitchen.” Pointing to a small table set up just outside the dining room, he told Delyth, “Wine goes over there.”
Josh headed toward the kitchen. Delyth was left on her own to deposit her bottle among the others already lined up or on ice.
She’d never been in the DuQuenne house before, although Helen had described the living room to her in detail. “Fear had stamped every stick of furniture indelibly into my brain,” Helen had said. “You’d think it would be the opposite. Like in a car accident and your mind blanks. Yet I can picture the stupid, dilapidated sofa better than my own.” To Delyth’s eye, it was somewhere between the Eastern European house-of-horrors Helen remembered and a lightly urban reincarnation André contributed. The apartment-size furniture—low-slung, leather sofa and chairs with stubby chrome legs, dark wooden tables all angles and edges—looked out of place against the floral wallpaper. Damaged walls were spackled over leaving large splotches of white against muddy wallpaper. Delyth was impressed at how quickly André had accomplished even this much; he’d only moved in two weeks before. She was surprised by the number of guests. Had André met them all since he moved? Could they be friends from Southern California or from Portland? Would people drive that far for a housewarming party? They were a few years younger than her. Maybe young people did. She couldn’t remember.
Her speculation was cut short when He
len rushed up and hugged her. “Josh told me you were here.”
Delyth returned a one-arm hug as best she could, not wanting to bang Helen in the back with the bottle she was still holding in her other hand.
“I was hoping to see you,” Helen said, taking Delyth’s free hand. “I’m jealous of your job.”
“I don’t have that job.” Seeing Helen stricken look, she was quick to add, “I still work for the Post. But Vickie’s back, so I’m off crime.” It made it sound like an addiction she’d finally kicked.
“I’m so sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alive than when we were working together to find Cécile’s killer.”
Although they shared information, Delyth hadn’t thought of them as working together. “You enjoyed almost getting killed?” she asked, trying to remind Helen that it wasn’t some innocent adventure they’d shared.
“I wouldn’t say enjoyed, not that part at least, but it was exhilarating.”
“I would’ve never taken you for an adrenaline junky.”
“Neither would I, but—” Helen stopped in mid-sentence and looked around. “Do you smell something?”
Delyth took a deep breath. “I don’t smell anything. At least nothing out of the ordinary.”
“I think it’s smoke,” Helen exclaimed. “I think it’s coming from the kitchen.” She raced out of the room.
Leaving her wine bottle on the closest side-table, Delyth followed her. André, who must have overheard Helen’s alarmed tone, joined them. Others turned to see what the commotion was.
Sniffing like a hound dog, Helen circled the kitchen.
Josh was transferring the cookies he’d brought to a plate. “What’s up?” he asked.
“Helen thinks she smells smoke,” Delyth answered.
“I think it’s the oven,” Helen said. “I was warming it for the hors-d’oeuvres.”
“Do you have an extinguisher?” Josh asked André.
“I don’t know.”
More people piled into the kitchen and stood around them.
Helen opened the oven door.
“Watch out. It could flare,” Josh exclaimed. He yanked Delyth back.
She leaned into the protection of his arms.
There wasn’t so much as a puff of smoke.
Helen reached in. “What’s this?” She brought out a small, black bag.
Delyth stepped from the comfort of Josh’s embrace to see what Helen had found.
“What’s in it?” André asked.
“I don’t know,” Helen said, gingerly passing the bag from hand to hand as if it was hot. “Let me put it down on the table.”
The bag didn’t look harmed by its time in the oven; it wasn’t even smoking.
“Should we open it?” André said.
“Well, it’s your house,” Helen said. “You have every right to find out.”
André cautiously reached for the bag. “It’s barely warm,” he said.
“It must have cooled quickly,” Helen said.
André untied the strings, and turned the contents onto the table. Out fell a large handful of round and oval stones, domed on one side and flat on the other, polished smoother than river rocks. André plucked the largest one from the pile and held it up to the light. About an inch across, it glowed a deep red as if a small flame burned inside.
The people closest gasped. Those behind leaned in closer.
“That’s beautiful,” Delyth said.
“Wow,” André exclaimed, his eyes wide with excitement.
“They could be the real ones,” Helen suggested, “the ones Cheyne was looking for.”
“And killed for,” Delyth added.
André dropped the red stone back with the others on the table.
“Let me take a look,” Josh said. He reached around Delyth and held up a smaller, oval blue stone. Delyth couldn’t help noticing it was the color of André’s eyes. “You could be right,” Josh said. “They could be the ones from the stolen painting,” Josh said. “Of course, we won’t know until they’re analyzed.”
“The museum will be pleased,” Helen put in.
André looked a little deflated but smiled. “Of course, they’ll have to go back. Easy come, easy go.”
Scooping the stones into the bag, Josh said, “I’d better take these for safe keeping. They’ve caused enough trouble already.”
Looking at Helen Delyth said, “I wonder why Etienne and Sophie didn’t find them. They tore the house apart looking for them.”
“I guess they never used the oven,” Helen said then looked away. “To think, Cheyne would have found them if he’d bothered to cook himself a good meal. But neither of them struck me as the cooking type.”
Something’s up, Delyth thought, but she didn’t say anything while people were around.
“I need a drink,” André announced.
Most of the guests followed him into the living room and the wine table. Delyth stayed behind saying she’d help Helen with the hors-d’oeuvres despite Helen saying all she had to do was pop them in the oven for fifteen minutes. Once they were alone, Delyth asked, “Okay. What was that charade about?”
“I have no idea what you mean.” Helen managed to look innocent and confused.
“Get off it. How did you know the jewels were in the oven?”
Helen looked at her a moment then said,
“I’d love to tell you but I don’t think I should.”
“Why not? Earlier weren’t you talking about our working together, how great it was, our being partners.”
“I didn’t say we were ever partners. You had your own reasons for following up on the story. Anything anyone tells you can end up on the front page. I understand. You have a job to do.”
“Well, if we’re being honest, you came to me because you wanted your story on the front page. You wanted to take some of the suspicion off Mike and you used me to do it.”
“Oh dear, used is such a nasty word.”
“You can’t deny it.”
Helen looked down but said nothing.
“Anyway, I’m no longer the crime reporter. It was never supposed to be permanent.” Delyth wondered if she brought in a scoop about the finding of the real jewels, whether Ted would let her run with it, no matter what Vickie said. “Besides, I’d never publish anything that was explicitly told to me in confidence.” It was a promise to Helen and a reminder to herself.
“Then why do you want to know?”
Delyth had gotten involved in the DuQuenne murder more than required, more than her editor wanted, because she thought it could establish her as a serious journalist, although it hadn’t saved her from being demoted back to general assignment. But at some point her motive changed to wanting to prove something to Josh, to beat him at detecting. Now that they were back together—or at least on the road to possibly being together again—that seemed petty. Even so, she couldn’t let the murder go. “Because I want to know how it all ends,” she told Helen at the same moment she realized it was true.
“Me too. Exactly. It’s the challenge. A life and death challenge. We helped prove Mikey was innocent. Without us he’d still be in jail awaiting trial.” She pulled the sheet of hors d’oeuvres from the oven and used her hand to place them on a platter, apparently without burning her fingers. “We shouldn’t lose that. So if I told you, just so you’d know how this story ends, I could trust you to keep it to yourself.”
“Of course,” Delyth said.
“Well—”
Josh came up. “Cookie?” He offered them the dish he was carrying with three cookies on it. “I vouch these are the best on the table.”
Delyth assumed they were the ones he’d brought, the kind he liked. But why did he feel the need to share just when he saw her and Helen talking?
“Later,” Helen whispered.
They each took one.
“I hope you learned a lesson.” Josh said.
“And what lesson would that be?” Helen asked.
“To stay out o
f police business.”
“And why would we do that?”
“You almost got yourself killed.”
“Oh my dear boy. It was quite the opposite.”
Josh looked at Delyth. “Do you understand that?”
“I think I do. I’ll tell you later.”
“I should get these hors d’oeuvres out to the other guests,” Helen said. As they entered the hubbub in the living room, she whispered to Delyth, “We should have coffee sometime so I can tell you that story we were discussing.”
“I usually go to yoga in Sullyton on Saturday mornings. Would you like to go with me? We could get coffee after.”
Helen hesitated for a few breaths. She’d never tried yoga and couldn’t imagine forcing her body into the poses, but even the attempt might be another part of the new life she felt she was starting. “Sure,” she answered. “When and where?”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Frustrated one day over a non-genre book I was struggling to write, I looked out from my third-floor office and realized a neighbor’s house was the perfect place for a whodunit mystery. The town I live in is similar to the Sullyton of the story just as two close friends were the inspiration for Helen and Delyth. As is typical, though, the town and characters twisted and turned and shaped themselves into what they needed to be. At this point, I doubt my models would ever recognize themselves.
It turned out I enjoyed writing mysteries. Helen and Delyth worked their way into my imagination and urged me to continue them in a series. They now appear in a second book: Apples For Vinegar, available from Amazon.