Ginny Aiken - Priced to Move

Ugh. And we have to trust that hotel to send us the stuff we left behind? Not holding my breath here.

I step inside the jewelry store where I worked so hard on my ulcers, and before I can say a word, Roger rushes me.

“I knew it! You’ve come to your senses! I just knew you would. Come on. Let me show you my latest buy—”

“Hang on!” I return his hug, and then extricate myself limb by limb. “I’m not here to work. Well, I’m here on work, but I’m not back to work for you.”

His smile wilts only at the edges. “You don’t mean that, Andrea. You know you don’t. I knew life in a backwater wasn’t for you. Not after all the years you enjoyed the real thing here in the city.”

“In your dreams. Do you realize I haven’t taken a single antacid since I left?” I marvel at that truth. “And I haven’t had even the slightest twinge of pain. It turns out I’m really not cut out for the kind of stress you thrive on.”

“I’ll triple your salary.”

“Roger! You have to stop that. I told you I won’t change my mind. It has nothing to do with money. It has to do with getting a life—mine! And it’s really not here in New York.” All the starch seems to wash right out of him. “If you insist, but I’m telling you now. I’m not giving up.”

I let that slide. “I didn’t just come for a visit, you know. I came because I have a ton of questions for you.”

“Questions? What about?”

“Mr. Pak. He’s dead, you know.”

Surprise makes him step back, his mouth doing a reasonable facsimile of a goldfish.

“And the minor matter of a parrot.”

He shakes his head. “A what?”

“You heard me. A bird.”

“That’s . . . different.”

“Oh, and maybe some rubies too.”

That’s when he plops his butt on his desktop.

I join him inches away, prepared to wait.

I want info, and Roger’s been known to be a fount thereof. At times. And on his terms.

His office clock tick-tick-ticks away.

13 00

Finally he pulls himself together. “You’ve lost your mind,” he says in a stunned voice.

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, if you want me to . . .” He waves. “Oh, I don’t know. Help you? Beats me what you think I can do, but at any rate, I need to know what you’re up to before I can begin to think up some answers.”

“What? You can’t read my mind?” I give him a sheepish smile. “I guess I do have to bring you up to speed. Maybe then you can tell me if you still think I’ve lost my mind.”

In very broad strokes, I paint a word picture of my last couple of weeks. Aside from a bunch of head shakes, some groans, and a few “I don’t believe thises,” he keeps his mouth shut and lets me spew. It feels good to go over all the insanity that’s struck me since I left New York. Even though the telling makes nothing any clearer than it was before.

At the end, he shakes his head. “Why would you think I’d have answers for you? I’ve been here, where you should have been all this time, I might add, while you’ve been . . . oh, practically everywhere.”

“I just thought since you’ve known Mr. Pak for such a long time that you might know something, maybe have names of people he knows—knew—or maybe he said something sometime during those years . . . anything .” The frustration gets to me and I slap my hands flat on the desktop, then push myself upright. “Oh, I guess I don’t know. This is totally insane.”

“I agree.”

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

He gives me an exasperated look. “What exactly is it you want me to say, Andie? That Mr. Pak stopped here on his way there, told me he was the victim of a massive international plot, that he was carrying stolen goods—no, crown jewels! That’s better. That he has some never-heard-of country’s crown jewels or its soon-to-be crown jewels, and that a swarm of killers is after him. Is that what you want?”

I give him a crooked grin. “That’s exactly what I want, but it does sound pretty far-fetched when you glue it all together like that.”

“Of course it sounds far-fetched. I don’t know why he went down to see you. Unless he had some stones he wanted to sell you for the network. Maybe some thief found out what he does for a living, followed him, and then stole the gems.”

“That’s as good a theory as any. But who would have done it?”

“That’s the best I can do. I have no idea who would want to kill him. And I don’t know any more than what you’ve told me.”

My shoulders slump. “You can’t blame me for trying.”

“I don’t blame you for anything—other than quitting and leaving me in the lurch.”

“Oh, give me a break, Rog. Just think of my departure as my donation toward Tiffany’s little splurges. And don’t talk about exorbitant raises you can’t afford. Look at it this way. Now that I’m gone, you don’t have to pay me, so the store’s profits go farther.”

He runs a hand through his steel-colored hair. “Don’t even mention Tiff. I’ve been working so many hours, I’m in the doghouse.”

“Uh-oh. I bet I’m in trouble with her too.”

His smile was smug. “She knows who left me to work all those extra hours.”

“You know what, Rog?” I cross my arms and arch my right brow. “Your pathetic efforts to guilt-trip me back to work for you aren’t going to work. And . . . Tiff’s your wife—your pro-blem-oh!”

He mirrors my pose. “And the dead ruby vendor’s yours.”

My spirits deflate. I start to pace. “I don’t know why I thought you’d have answers for me. My gut tells me Mr. Pak was murdered for the—”

I catch myself. I haven’t mentioned the parcel stolen from the mine. There’s no point bringing it up.

A shrug, and I go on. “I’m sure he was killed for his rubies. But if that’s the case, the killer has to be someone who knew he’d have stones with him.”

“How would anyone know that? Unless he’d called ahead to make an appointment, like he used to do with us. And how are we supposed to know if he made any appointments?

There are millions of jewelers in the U.S. You don’t expect me to know them all, do you?”

“Did he ever come to the U.S. just for fun?”

His turn for one of those helpless shrugs.

“Exactly. I’m not ready to start pointing fingers, but we both agree the killer has to be someone who buys stones from him. And I don’t buy the random jeweler theory.”

That gets to him. He sits way up, his back ramrod straight, his shoulders square. “I hope you’re not hinting what I’m afraid you are. Because if you are, then you’re dead wrong. I didn’t do a thing to that man.”

“You think I’m accusing you of killing Mr. Pak?”

“I know how your mind works—if it stinks of rotten fish in Denmark, then there just might be rotten fish in Denmark. Or in this case, in Manhattan.”

“Give me a break, Roger Hammond. What you smell is New York fumes. Remember? Trash sits out on the sidewalk for days before the sanitation guys come get it.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Bingo! And what you think I meant isn’t what I meant. I didn’t come here to accuse you. I came to talk because you know more people in the gem world than Leno knows in Hollywood. Who else would I go to for help figuring out this mess?”

“All right, all right.” He rubs his forehead, holds his splayed-out hands in a gesture of pure helpless ignorance, then squeezes his eyes shut, wrinkles his nose, and gives his head a couple of small shakes. “You’ve got to admit, a guy’s going to feel the bull’s-eye on his forehead if someone comes in out of the blue and starts talking murder conspiracies.”