by Lori L. Lake
Chapter Thirteen
ELEANOR LEFT THE First National Trust building, still feeling as though she were wading through a mudslide of monumental proportions. She got into her car and sat shaking uncontrollably, shocked that her emotional state could be so overpowering. She let the afternoon heat soothe her, and gradually she calmed down.
She held a sheaf of papers she'd been gripping so tightly that she'd creased them down the middle. A kind banking representative had printed out information from her general accounts as well as her charge account. He'd also given her copies of various authorizations she'd supposedly signed to increase her credit. How had this happened? She'd signed nothing. Who did this to her?
She leafed through the pages until she came to the charge card statements for the last two months.
Over nine thousand dollars to Jetter's Gems and Jewels.
Eleanor had never heard of the place, but the address was in Saint Paul, so she put the papers in her bag, started up the car, and got on the freeway.
Jetter's shop was located in a strip mall on Larpenteur Avenue between Mister Chang's Wok and Marta's European Bakery & Cookie Emporium. Eleanor found a parking place next to Famous Footwear and slammed her door with real vigor. As she stepped up on the curb outside the jewelry store, she realized she'd stomped across the lot. She stopped to take two solid breaths and told herself to calm down.
The windows on either side of the door contained jewelry boxes and cases of various shapes and sizes, all resting on folds of black velvet. The rings and necklaces and brooches twinkled in the sunlight.
She entered the store and her eyes took several moments to adjust to the dim light.
The small showroom was quiet with not a clerk in sight. She moved forward and stopped in the U created by three glass display cases packed full of gems, jewels, watches, necklaces, and earrings. A glittery sign on the rear wall read JETTER'S GEMS & JEWELRY, then underneath, Philippe Jetter, Proprietor.
The left wall was covered with cuckoo clocks, and the right sported coats of arms decorated with shining gems. In the left corner, beyond the display cases, sat a cluttered worktable littered with tweezers, magnifiers, a loupe on a movable stand, and various watches, rings, and other bits of shiny metal.
A tan curtain to the right whisked open, and a barrel-chested man in his fifties stepped through. He was dressed in a gray herringbone suit and a bloodred tie.
"Good day, madam, good day." He had a slight accent, but Eleanor wondered if he was putting it on.
He strutted over to stand below the store's sign behind the showcase filled with wedding rings. With a grand gesture, he half-turned to point at the sign behind him. "As you may suspect, I am Philippe Jetter, proprietor of the most extraordinary gems and jewels in the Midwest." He smiled, and she wondered how much time and attention he paid to the natty little bandit mustache he sported above his dainty red mouth. He had a full head of dark hair, but his face was round, and the mustache was so small that it looked fake.
He threaded his fingers together in front of his belly. "We import jewels of the finest quality so that you receive only the highest value. The selection of diamonds, pearls, sapphires, rubies, and emeralds is unrivaled by other stores. Our cultured pearls are—"
Eleanor cut him off before he systematically described every single gem in the store. "Excuse me. I have a quick question about a purchase."
"Certainly. How may I help?"
She slapped her charge statement on the glass case. "Last month you sold something on this account, and I want to know more about it."
"Oh, madam, I cannot share customer information. I'm so sorry."
"This purchase was made on my own account."
"And you've had a case of buyer's remorse?"
"No. I'm having a case of fraud and theft. You sold something illegally on my account."
His face twisted into an expression of disbelief. "I have never seen you in my life, madam, and no one else works in this fine establishment. I remember every single customer, and you have not been one of them."
"Yes. Exactly. Please get out your records for this purchase." She stabbed her index finger at the statement.
"Come with me, madam." He picked up the sheet of paper and carried it toward the front of the store.
When she'd stepped in the shop, she hadn't noticed a table and chairs in an alcove behind her, below the front window. "Please have a seat there," he said. "I'll check on this purchase."
A few feet from where she sat, a recessed area below a row of cuckoo clocks contained a computer screen, a keyboard, and a credit card device. With his back to her, Jetter clacked away at the computer then spun around and sat in the chair across from her. "Madam, if you would be so kind as to show me some identification?"
She fished in her bag for her wallet and showed him her driver's license.
He squinted at it for a moment and gave her the charge bill. "That is satisfactory." He cleared his throat. "My records show that for $8,429, you purchased a lovely three-stone wedding ring with one center oval diamond of approximately one carat. The diamond was flanked by two exquisite, hand-matched half-carat emeralds, and you selected a classic polished 14-karat gold setting to complete the design."
"A wedding ring! Do I look like I'd be getting married?"
"Oh, madam! Women marry all the time."
"You said eight thousand and some dollars. The bill is over nine thousand."
"We cannot ignore the state sales tax."
She glanced around the shop. "You've got a video camera in here somewhere, right?"
"But of course."
"Where is it?"
"That is a trade secret, but I assure you even now our exchange is being recorded."
"Wonderful! Will you pull out the tapes for the day you sold the ring?"
He sputtered. "But the sale took place last month."
"Are you saying you don't keep the tapes?"
"No, madam, not for that long."
"But you admit you've never seen me in your life."
"True. The woman who came in to purchase this ring was not you. I can see that."
"You remember her? What did she look like?"
"Light hair, I think, though it was up in a scarf. Pretty smile. Very nice teeth."
"Did she have dentures or what?"
"I cannot say. She wore a lovely lavender-colored suit. Beyond that, I can't help you."
"Would you recognize her if you saw her again?"
"Possibly."
"She couldn't have given you a credit card. She gave you a number, right?"
"No, madam, I am a reputable business owner. I would never charge an account without the card."
Eleanor dug through her wallet and came up with a credit card. "But I have it right here. How could she have used my card when it's never been out of my possession?"
He shrugged and gave her a tepid grin that only angered her more.
"Did you even look at her ID to make sure she was me?"
He let out a huff and his nose came up in the air. "I ran her credit card, and it was accepted. I had no reason to believe there was a problem. She was most genteel, a well-bred woman of impeccable taste."
"But Mr. Jetter, this was a robbery."
He stood up abruptly and stuffed the calculator in his pocket. "I can help you no further, madam."
Eleanor felt like her legs weighed a hundred pounds apiece. She rose, shaking her head. "This is a crime. I don't know what's going to happen, but you might want to check ID from now on. I'll be reporting this to my credit card company, and I have a hunch that it won't go well for you."
His face flushed red, and his eyes narrowed. "I have done nothing wrong. Nothing."
"And neither have I. We're both victims here, Mr. Jetter."
THE WEDDING RING on Eleanor's charge bill was the most egregious fraud, but none of the other charges were hers either. The account balance exceeded nineteen thousand dollars, just short of her twenty thousand limit. Nineteen grand, El
eanor thought. How could this have happened? Suddenly she felt so tired that, for a moment, she almost decided to leave the investigating to the police. But then she looked at the bill again.
In monetary order, the next highest amount, $4,278.93, was charged to an electronics store. She'd love to know what the thieves had bought. A stereo system? One of those big-screen TVs? A computer? She knew next to nothing about electronics, and the store was way out in Crystal, so she decided to visit the store that had sold the next most expensive item.
Norton Fine Furniture sold somebody $2,027.65 worth of goods. She drove to their showroom and found expensive end tables, leather sofas, and entertainment centers of every size, shape, and material, all of which were tastefully displayed on Persian rugs and decorated with afghans, potpourri bowls, and various table lamps that sometimes cost more than a sofa. The salesman was obsequious, eager to show her anything she wished. When he found out the purpose of her visit, he became petulant, but eventually he tracked down the records and told her that her charge account had purchased a massive wooden armoire, a piece of furniture that was designed to hold a TV (or two or three), and all the extra TiVo, VCR, DVD, or receiver components anyone would ever buy.
The salesman admitted they had video surveillance running in the store, but nothing more. She got the owner's name. She didn't hold out much hope. The furniture was charged the day after the items at the electronics store, so after this much time, she suspected video records might not have been kept.
Her next stop was Chez René Fine French Food in Saint Paul. If she read the word "fine" one more time, she thought she'd scream.
The lunch rush was through, and only two diners, businessmen by the looks of them, were seated in the far corner. The maître d' was nowhere to be seen, so Eleanor stood in the foyer and waited, the aroma of spices and sauces tickling her nose. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she saw a stack of faux-leather menus atop the maître d' station. She picked up the heavy book and opened it.
The left side of the menu listed Escargots Curnosky for $17 and Huitres Auu Beurre Blanc, $19. The least expensive item, Soupe A L'Oignon Gratinee Au Champagne, cost $14. She didn't speak French at all, but thought it was French Onion Soup. The least expensive item on the right side of the menu was Crevettes a La Mode De Provence for $29. The entrees ranged all the way up to $48. No wonder the charge on the credit card statement was over eight hundred dollars.
A man in a black suit carrying a couple of menus came around the corner and started when he saw her. "I'm so sorry, ma'am. I didn't hear you come in."
His hair was sandy blond and his eyes a piercing blue. He spoke like a native Minnesotan—that is, with no French accent.
"Hello, I need some assistance, sir."
"I'm the maître d'. How may I help you?" He set the menus he carried atop the stack and stepped behind an elaborate counter with a gold filigreed screen that hid a cash register.
Eleanor set down the menu and once more hauled the charge bill out of her bag. She'd handled it so much that the paper was now wrinkled and creased. As she introduced herself, she smoothed it out on the counter. "I'm afraid I've been the victim of credit card fraud. Someone stole my card number and has somehow been using it."
"That's terrible. A friend of mine had his identity stolen last year, and he's still trying to sort it out."
"Last year? He's been dealing with it that long?"
"Over a year now. It's a real mess."
Eleanor knew about identity theft, but until this very moment, it hadn't occurred to her that the situation could be any worse than the credit card theft alone. "I can only hope and pray that I'm not that unlucky."
"I take it you want me to check records for you."
"If you'd be so kind. The charge is from three weeks ago. A Friday night, I believe."
He jotted a note on a pad of paper and ripped it off. "I have to go back to the manager's office to resurrect this data. Might I interest you in a glass of iced tea? Or a good stiff drink?" He smiled sympathetically.
"That would be nice." In several hours, she hadn't eaten anything or had so much as a sip of water. All of a sudden her stomach was growling.
"Tell you what," he said, "come with me, Mrs. Sinclair." He led her into the restaurant and seated her in a cozy semicircular booth designed for two. "My name's Brian. Please give me a few minutes. In the meantime, George will be right with you."
Before Brian had crossed the restaurant, a waiter appeared at her side with a menu and a glass of ice water with lemon.
She said, "I'd like a Scotch Sour, please, and a bowl of that fourteen dollar soup."
The waiter nodded and reached for the menu.
"I'd like to hang on to this, if you don't mind."
"Yes, ma'am."
She gulped down a slug of water, set the glass on the table, and tried to make herself breathe normally. A creepy sensation hovered in the pit of her stomach. With the events of the last few days, she felt like she was in the middle of a strange dream, one of those she occasionally had where she woke up disoriented and frightened. She wished she were in a dream, one that would end unexpectedly and leave her waking up in her apartment, ready to start the day with a cup of tea and some toast with Callie.
Not three minutes passed before the waiter returned with her drink. He waited for a moment, an expectant expression on his face. She sipped the Scotch Sour and pronounced it delightful.
"Thank you." He bowed slightly and went off again.
She plucked an orange slice off the side of the glass and bit into it. The fruit was fresh and crisp, flooding her mouth with the sweet taste of orange citrus. She thought they must have soaked it in sugar water because she didn't recall having such a sweet orange in ages.
George magically appeared with a tray and unloaded a wide bowl filled to the brim with French onion soup garnished with bits of cheese. He also set down a basket of French breads and pastries and a tray as long as her arm containing crackers, cheeses, plums, cherries, and orange slices.
"This is the most amazing array of food I've ever seen, George, but I only ordered a bowl of soup."
George smiled. "One should get her money's worth with a fourteen dollar bowl of soup. Now, is there anything else you might need? I can grind pepper for your soup?"
"No, this is fine. Perfectly wonderful. Thank you."
The Scotch had gone to her head, flooding her with a lighthearted glee. If she wanted to drive home, she thought she'd better get something in her stomach, so she dug in.
By the time the maître d' returned, she was able to say, "I'm in heaven, Brian. This soup is worth every dollar, and the fruits and breads and everything else are outstanding."
"I'm so pleased you're enjoying it," he said. "Our Entremetier responsible for the soup is truly a master, and the Pâtissier makes the best pastries I've ever eaten. I'd weigh five hundred pounds if I didn't exercise some discretion around all this good food."
"I can imagine."
He held several sheets of paper. "Would you mind if I took a seat?"
"Not at all. I have a hunch you've got bad news for me."
Nodding, he slid into the booth and arranged three pages in front of him.
She flipped open the menu. "What is this right here?" she asked, pointing to the Medailon D'Agneau Balsamico, $48.
"Those are Lamb Tenderloins."
"And this item for forty-two dollars?"
"Magret de Canard Aux Airelles. That's Duck Breast with Berry Sauce. I always get the sauces mixed up for that and the Medaillon Beurre de Cassis, which is Beef Tenderloin in Red Currant Sauce."
"I've never had an affinity for any language but English, so I'd never be able to keep it all straight."
"To be honest, I need to work at it myself."
"What did you find out about the eight-hundred-dollar tab?"
He consulted the papers in front of him. "I'm afraid I might not have enough information for you to press charges. What I can tell you is that there were s
ix diners who each had an entrée. We served six appetizers—four bowls of that French onion soup, the oysters in shallot sauce, and the crab, shrimp, and scallops au gratin. They drank three bottles of wine, one of which was a 1988 Chateau Mouton-Rothschild Bordeaux that cost $295."
Eleanor choked on a piece of pastry. Coughing, she grabbed for the water glass and washed down the lump in her throat while he watched, alarm in his eyes.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes." She set down her fork and sat back, her hands in her lap. "That's quite a meal these people had at my expense."
"It is. The good news is that Stephan waited on them, and he's got a terrific memory. Not only will he probably be able to recognize this party of six, but he'll likely remember many details about them, especially if any of them have been here before."
"Is he here now—or will he be tonight?"
"No, not now, but he'll be in tomorrow. If you end up getting the police involved, I can give them his home address. I wish I could share that information with you—"
"It's all right, young man. I understand issues of privacy completely."
"Thank you."
"What amazes me is how easy it was for this person—these people—to use my credit card. I don't even know how they got hold of it. And apparently nobody blinked when they rang up over eight hundred dollars in charges."
Brian winced, but he met her gaze. "This restaurant's been in business since 1994. We cater to a wealthy clientele and rarely have problems with fraud."
"I have to say, it's a brazen thief who shows up at a restaurant like this and actually dines using a stolen card. If your Stephan is as clever as you say, you'd think the thieves would figure out they could be identified."
"True. That makes me think perhaps it was a one-time visit on their part."
"Or that they live out of the area."
"Yes. That could be."
"Brian, this is the third business I've been to today, and I'm shocked that nobody checks identification."
"We do a cursory check of the signature on the card, but if the charges are accepted by the credit card company, we don't ask for ID. Our clientele wouldn't take kindly to it, you see."
