Ginny Aiken - Priced to Move

“. . . for any of you just joining me now at the top of the hour, welcome! I’m so happy you can spend some time with me. Let’s have some fun and help each other out here. Oh yes. Before we go any further, let me introduce myself. My name is Wendy, and I’ll be with you for the next hour . . .”

Former cheerleader Wendy has the market cornered on perky.

“. . . isn’t it great? I’ll tell you, there’s not much advanced technology can’t do. Fat Busters are self-contained, fat-breaking bands that do their thing while you do yours—and they do it all day long ! Isn’t that fabulous, girls? While you’re sweeping, dusting, or even scooping the cat litter, your Fat Busters are working for you . . .”

Okay. I’m as willing to give technology a chance as the next girl, but . . . “It’s a girdle.”

Max grins. “Told ya.”

“Can’t argue with fact.”

“And there’s no such thing as an orange garnet.”

“There is too.”

“No, there’s not.”

“Just because you can tell a girdle’s a girdle doesn’t mean you know diaspores from diamonds.”

“And I don’t really have to.”

“That day won’t come soon enough.”

“Amen.”

Oh yeah. I’m with him on that—if not on anything else.

8 00

“Fine,” I say, to avoid further confrontation. “I don’t know about you, but I have a show to prepare for, and I really need Allison’s fine touch with war paint after last night.”

Forty-five minutes after I submit to hair and makeup’s mercies, I’m—outwardly—ready for the show. That Max will again be at my side doesn’t help.

How am I going to approach Miss Mona about this? I have to get rid of him, and soon. We want the jewelry and gemstone program to succeed. And a know-nothing blond version of Barbie’s ex who used to read a weather teleprompter at some teeny local affiliate station in Who-Knows-Where, Missouri, isn’t going to help.

But I can’t go talk to her right now. I have to focus and do my best to overcome the six-foot-plus pain to my right.

With a prayer, I take my seat at the host’s desk. Max joins me. At least today we’re dealing in diamonds, not true exotics like the spessartite garnets. He says he knows what a diamond looks like.

We can only hope.

The show starts out fine. But so did yesterday’s. We fly through the entire stock of white diamond solitaires in minutes. We go to the phones, and the viewers tell us all about their jewelry collections, especially the pieces they’ve bought during Danni’s shows. There’s a whole lot of bling-bling finding homes!

“Ladies,” I say, “I’m thrilled you’re so happy with your purchases from us. And I’m honored to show you top-quality goods. The Shop-Til-U-Drop Network’s fabulous buyers negotiate to the penny, and that means we are able to buy the fine, VS clean, G-color white diamonds you’ve all snapped right up. I want to congratulate you on your excellent taste. Now let me show you another kind of diamond goodie.”

In my left hand, I hold tweezers with a gorgeous full-carat white diamond clamped in place. With the other, I take a second pair of tweezers, and pick up an equally excellent, full-carat champagne diamond.

“See the difference between these two stones?”

Max, who up to now had kept his comments to safe “Oh yeses” and “Wows!” leans forward. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “this is a perfect way to show you the difference between a superior diamond, like the one Andie has in her left hand, and this other, inferior, poor-color stone.”

Huh? My chin nearly clips the desk when I gape. “What are you talking about?” I shake the tweezers with the champagne stone at him. “Do you have any idea what this is?”

“Even I know a dirty diamond when I see one.”

“You’ve never heard of fancy-colored diamonds?”

“Everyone knows about J-Lo’s pink one.”

“But that’s not the only fancy color. Diamonds come—”

“Don’t tell me,” he cuts in with a devastating smile. Women of America drop like swooning flies. “Let me guess. I’ll bet you’re going to say diamonds come in all colors except blue, and that the rarest are the elusive mandarin orange spes-sartite diamonds.”

His smile never falters.

My temper comes to life. “No, Max. There’s no such thing as a mandarin orange spessartite diamond, and”—through gritted teeth—“you know it. Besides, as I’m sure all our savvy customers know, diamonds do come in blue. In fact, one of the world’s most famous diamonds, the Hope diamond, is blue.”

“Oh. Yeah. I guess I have heard of the Hope diamond. Isn’t it in the Smithsonian or something? But are you sure it’s blue?”

“It’s at the Smithsonian, and I’m sure it’s blue. Oh, and just FYI, the blue color comes from boron in its chemical composition.”

“I got it. Boron, which rhymes with moron, does the blue.” He rolls his eyes while I just stare, and then he points at my tweezers. “That, Andie, is no blue diamond.”

Let it go, let it go, let it go.

“And you, Max, traffic in the way too obvious. This gorgeous stone comes from the Argyle mines in Australia, and it’s what is known as a champagne diamond. See the golden glow, the orange, pink, and even red sparks when the light hits it? It’s wonderful.”

Max leans close. That clean, masculine scent of his cologne surrounds me. Too bad he’s such a lunkhead.

“Now that you mention it,” the lunkhead says, “it does kind of look like candlelight.”

This unexpected insight stuns me—almost as much as what I feel zip through me when he takes my hand to get a better look.

“Th—” Whoo-ee! He’s dangerous, all right. I catch myself before I fan my face. “That’s what this exact shade is actually called. Candlelight. How’d you know?”

“I didn’t.” He smiles into the camera. More women drop. “But just looking at it made me think of a romantic dinner, lit by tall, white, glowing candles.”

Oooohh, he’s good. From behind the camera, Sally gestures that the phone lines have gone ballistic thanks to Max. I’ve got to put the brakes on before this show turns into Romancing the Max .

“And that, ladies,” I say, “is exactly what you’ll be wearing on your finger . . . or near your heart. A memory of romance, of elegance, and that certain excitement that comes with life’s special moments. Now what girl wouldn’t love that?”

The show unravels from there on out. The good news is that we put a number of gushing customers through on the phones. The bad news is that they proclaim Max and me their favorite show hosts. I can’t believe there are people out there who can stand this seesaw between knowledge and . . . well, you decide. But they do buy diamonds. A lot of diamonds.

So we score a debacle again. A debacle about which everyone raves. You can’t account for taste.

By the time the network’s theme music brings the show to a close, I’m shot. It takes a lot out of you to keep up a conversation with America while you also do damage control for a lunk’s bloopers.

And, as if that’s not bad enough, when I reach the green room, where I left my briefcase before the show, my day takes a turn to the even worse. How, you ask?

Chief Clark is waiting for me.

Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby are with him, as well as what must be a plainclothes detective. I don’t really worry about the loony two—well, I do worry about them, just not the same way. They know I had nothing to do with Mr. Pak’s trip or with his death or even his turning up in our vault.

“Miss Andie,” the lawman says, “the coroner finished the autopsy, and Mr. Pak died of blunt-force trauma to the head, just like I figured he had.”