Crown Jewel

by Fern Michaels

  At one minute past eight the next morning, Ricky dialed the number from Martin Mangarella’s email. He identified himself and explained, in detail, the circumstances for the call.

  “Yes, I remember the email from Mr. Lam and my response. I wondered why he didn’t respond. I’m sorry about his passing. Are you Ricky Lam, the movie star?”

  “Retired movie star, Mr. Mangarella. Yes, Philip was my brother. I’d like to arrange a meeting with you as soon as possible.”

  “Well, sure, Mr. Lam. I own a hardware store, and I don’t open till ten o’clock. If I’m late, my manager can open for me.” He rattled off his address and gave directions. “You really are the movie star, huh? I think I’ve seen most of your movies. I’m what they call a movie buff.”

  And the price is going up, up, and up, Ricky thought. “I can be there in forty minutes, Mr. Mangarella.”

  “I’ll be waiting, Mr. Lam.”

  Martin Mangarella was as good as his word. He was sitting on the front steps of a small, brown, shingled house. The neighborhood as well as the house reminded Ricky of his own childhood home and Lee Ann Oliver’s house. It was that kind of a neighborhood.

  He was a small man with shell-rimmed glasses that almost hid his dark brown eyes. He was dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a yellow tee shirt that had MANGARELLA HARDWARE on the pocket. He stood up to shake hands. His grip was firm and hard. His smile was shy, Ricky thought.

  “Everything’s in the basement. I have all the boxes up on shelves in case of leaks or whatever. They’re pretty moldy and smelly, but I don’t think that will matter to you. We should probably discuss the fee now before you start looking. It’s not going to take you very long. My mother labeled everything, and all the boxes are in alphabetical order.”

  “How much is the fee, Mr. Mangarella?”

  “You see, that’s just it. I don’t know what to charge you. What is it worth to you? I don’t want to gouge you because I understand how important this is to you. I’m not trying to get rich off this. By the same token, I shouldn’t be giving this information to you for free either. I guess you should just give me a number, and I’ll take it.”

  “How does fifty thousand dollars sound?”

  “That sounds just fine, Mr. Lam. If you’d said five bucks, I would have said fine to that, too.”

  “You know what, Mr. Mangarella, I knew that. Fifty thousand it is. Now, if the answers I’m looking for aren’t in there, you get five bucks. Deal?”

  “Deal. Do you want my help, or do you want to do it yourself?”

  “I’d like to do it myself if you show me where to look. Can I keep the file?”

  “No, you can’t keep it, but you can make copies on my machine. I have a small office off the kitchen with a copier. Fifteen cents a copy. Is that okay with you?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s okay.”

  Martin Mangarella’s basement ran the entire length of the house. It appeared dry and well maintained. Heavy-duty shelves lined all four walls and were filled with cardboard boxes. Neat labels were on the end of each box. Martin went immediately to the L section.

  “I had no idea so many people adopted,” Ricky said, looking at the hundreds and hundreds of boxes.

  “My mother cross-filed a lot of them. The last name of the parents giving up the baby, and the last name of the adoptive parents. There are six cartons of L’s. There are approximately sixty files to a box, depending on the thickness of each file. Some of the files are really two files clipped together, so be careful when you go through them. Take your pick. I’ll be upstairs in the kitchen if you need me. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  It took Ricky a good five minutes before he could summon the nerve to reach for the first box. He pulled it down and set it on an old enamel table whose edges were chipped and rusty. He was starting to get a headache. His heart pounded furiously inside his chest.

  Twenty-five minutes and forty-two files later, Ricky found the file with the names, Bertha and Arthur Lam, written in ink on the side and again on the front. Bertha and Arthur Lam were his parents. Their friends always called them Bee and Artie.

  Perspiration beaded on his forehead. He had to wipe the palms of his hands twice on his pants until they felt dry. What was he going to find inside the file? Would he be able to handle it? He tried to imagine Philly standing in this exact spot, staring down at the folder. What would he have been thinking? How would he have looked? Would his hands have been clammy like mine are? Would he have been sweating? Above all, would he have been excited, or would he have been filled with dread the way I am?

  What if he couldn’t handle what he found in the file? What if whatever he found only made things worse? What if there were no names in the file?

  Ricky opened the flap and stared down at the papers inside. There weren’t many, six, he counted. Two pages had been typed on an old typewriter, probably an Underwood, with a carbon ribbon. The O on the typewriter punched a hole in the paper, the E hit above the line. Still, it was easy to read, and Mrs. Mangarella, if she was the one who had made the handwritten entries, had excellent penmanship. More than anything, though, it was the white envelope that intrigued him. At one time, it had been sealed, he suspected. It was a short, handwritten note with just a few lines. He felt a knot form in his throat when he read the ink-faded words.

  Please, whoever you are, if you’re adopting my son Caleb, please tell him how very much I loved him. Tell him I didn’t want to give him up but I had no other choice.

  Caleb’s Mother.

  When he finished reading through the file twice, he closed the flap and laid it on the old enamel table. He put the cover back on the box and returned it to the shelf. His body stiff with shock, he made his way up the steps to the kitchen, where his host waited for him. He pulled a five-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to Martin. Then he scribbled out a check and laid it on the kitchen counter.

  Martin Mangarella counted out the exact amount of change and handed it over with the photocopies.

  Ricky’s tongue was so thick in his mouth he didn’t think he would be able to speak. “Are you going to read that file, Mr. Mangarella?” he finally managed to ask.

  “No. Why would I want to do something like that? If there are any secrets in that file, they’re safe. That’s one thing you will never have to worry about.” Ricky believed him implicitly. He didn’t know why, he just did.

  Ricky drove home in a daze. He forgot all about his intention to go to the bank to inspect the safe-deposit box. All he could think about were the contents of the file on the seat next to him.

  12

  Back home, Ricky slid the manila folder across the kitchen table. He wondered if Martin Mangarella had charged him for the folder or if it was a freebie. He looked over at the coffeepot because it was better than looking at the manila envelope. The leftover contents of the coffeepot looked way too dark to drink, just as the contents of the envelope were way too scary to read again. Because he needed to do something—anything but think about what he’d just learned about his brother—he rinsed out the pot, added fresh coffee and water. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted a cup of coffee. The truth was, he didn’t know what he wanted.

  While the coffee dripped, Ricky called Roxy’s cell phone. “I changed my mind, Roxy. I’d like you to come here if you can manage it. Do you think you can get a flight out anytime soon? If not, charter a flight.” Ricky held his breath waiting for her response.

  Roxy didn’t ask why. “Should I call Tyler or Max?”

  “Max has his hands full getting ready for Carnival. Call Tyler. Get back to me with your ETA, and I’ll meet you.”

  Her voice was husky, little more than a whisper. “Is it bad, Ricky?”

  “Let’s just say it’s a mind-bender, okay? We’ll talk when you get here.”

  While the coffee dripped into the pot, Ricky placed a call to his old studio to speak with Donald Sandusky. He spoke quietly and forcefully. “Tell them to cancel
the planned movie and book. Go with me, and I’ll give them an Academy Award movie. Do it, Sandusky, you won’t be sorry.”

  His second call was to a longtime friend, a well-known screenwriter. He spoke slowly and distinctly. His jaw was set grimly when he hung up the phone.

  Ricky carried his fresh cup of coffee out to the rear deck and sat down. He liked this section of the deck because he could look out over his gardens and not see buildings, the tennis court, or the pool, just natural greenery with bushels of vibrant flowers. He loved flowers. He leaned his head back on the chaise and closed his eyes. Once, he’d given his mother a marigold plant in a milk carton. She’d rushed outside and planted it right away at the edge of the front porch. He wished now he had looked last night to see if it was still there. Maybe it was one of those plants you had to plant every year. Annual or perennial? He had no clue.

  He looked up when a shadow crossed his legs. He opened his eyes. “Gracie!”

  “I thought you said you were leaving, Mr. Lam.”

  “I did. I was. My bags are by the front door. But I have to stay on a few more days. How are the dogs doing?”

  “Just great. They trust me. They know they’re going to be fed. My brother and sister are spoiling them shamelessly. They like us. Dogs know.” She didn’t explain what she meant by dogs know, and Ricky didn’t ask because he understood.

  “You look worried and troubled. Is there anything I can help you with? All you have to do is ask.”

  “Not right now. How’s the article going?”

  “Very well. I worked on it till long after midnight. Jonah is bringing up the photos this afternoon. He said they came out better than he expected. I just got a call from the Times, and if I can get this in to them by tomorrow, they’re going to run it next week. Front page of the Entertainment section on Sunday. I hope you’re as pleased with that news as I am.”

  “Are you going to let me read it before you send it off?”

  “Absolutely. I’m going to finish it up by noon. Jonah is going to hand-deliver it to the Times. I’d like to ask permission to use your copy machine. I’ll make a copy for you, and I need one for my files. Do you want to talk about anything, Mr. Lam? I’m a real good listener.”

  “The copy machine is on the second floor in my office. Use it anytime you want. It’s a personal matter, Gracie, and something I have to handle myself.”

  “Well, I have to get going, so I’ll leave you to whatever you were doing. I want to thank you again. You don’t know what your generosity means to my family. Life certainly is strange sometimes. I won’t bother you again. I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

  “Gracie, you aren’t bothering me. It’s nice having you around. And you aren’t in my way. I’m on overload right now, that’s all.”

  “Been there, done that,” Gracie quipped. “Bye.”

  “Bye, Gracie.”

  His little respite over, Ricky got up. He suddenly felt like an old man. Not even a wise old man, just an old man with an equally tired old brain. Inside, he turned off the coffeepot. He looked down at the manila folder. He hated to pick it up, but he didn’t want it lying on the kitchen table. He carried it into what he called the TV room and slipped it under one of the cushions on the sofa. Just in case Gracie’s journalistic instincts got the better of her.

  Fifteen minutes later he was on the highway. His next stop, the bank where his mother had her safe-deposit box. He had to remember to ask who paid the rental every year. It would never have occurred to his mother to pay ahead on any kind of a bill. Philly then? He wondered if he would end up having a nervous breakdown over his brother.

  Ricky drove steadily, the car stereo cranked to the max. He did his best to listen to the music. He’d never been very good about switching his mental gears. Philly always said he had a one-track mind plus tunnel vision. Philly had never really said anything nice to him. Never.

  Ricky slowed the Porsche as he approached a red light. He looked in the rearview mirror and finger-combed his hair. He didn’t look any better when he was done. He turned the stereo down as he pulled into the bank’s small parking lot. He used the bank’s back entrance and ended up at the little gate next to the vault. That was easy enough. He handed over his key to a matronly-looking woman with pink, tinted glasses. He knew the drill. He waited till she found the file card, asked him to sign his name, compared the signature before she opened her desk drawer for her key.

  Together they walked into a room where the safe-deposit boxes lined three full walls. The number on his mother’s box was 262. The woman fitted both keys into the locks, turned them, withdrew a long, narrow box, and handed it to Ricky.

  “Room 3 is open if you want privacy,” the woman said. Ricky nodded. The box felt light, like there was nothing in it. Maybe Philly had found a way to get to it and had taken the contents, whatever they were.

  The room was small, no bigger than a broom closet. It held a shelf, a chair, and a wastebasket. After locking the door, he sat down and drummed his fingers on top of the box for a good five minutes as he played a game with himself called what’s in the box? Maybe his first tooth. A lock of hair from his first haircut. His baby shoes. He flipped the latch that opened the cover. One lone white envelope.

  Ricky marveled at how steady his hands were when he withdrew the envelope from the box. It wasn’t sealed. Inside was a single sheet of paper with a man’s name on it. Vincent Nolan? Underneath was an address in Los Angeles he didn’t recognize. There was no phone number. A fat lot of good this was going to do him. Who the hell is Vincent Nolan? What is so important about this man that my mother kept his name locked away in a bank? Could he be Philly’s real father?

  Vincent Nolan. The name rang eerily in his mind as if he should know it. He folded the paper and placed it back in the envelope before stuffing the envelope in his hip pocket. He returned the box to the bank clerk and handed her his key. “I won’t be needing the box any longer.” He was going to ask the woman if she knew who paid the rental fee but changed his mind. Obviously the bill was sent to his mother’s house and had gone into Philly’s direct payment plan.

  He was almost to his car when a thought struck him. What happened to Philly’s mail? He supposed that after a certain period of time, with no forwarding address, the mail was simply returned to the sender. He didn’t see any point to checking that out. He knew he was a poor excuse for a sleuth.

  Vincent Nolan. He said the name over to himself, hoping it would resuscitate a long-forgotten memory. It didn’t work. He could truthfully say he had never heard that particular name in his life. Yet, he knew the name from somewhere. Where?

  As he tooled along the highway, his thoughts drifted to his past the way they always did when he was under stress. In the old days, he would simply have turned away and not looked back. That was the old days, when he didn’t know what end was up. If he wasn’t driving, he would have thrown his hands up in disgust. This was now. He was clean, dry, sober, and a responsible member of society, thanks to Philly. He couldn’t discount the fact that he was a new father, too. He’d never followed through on anything in his entire life. This time he had to stay the course. For Philly, for himself, for his boys, and even for Roxy. Just the thought of Roxy lightened his mood.

  Who in God’s name is Vincent Nolan? Obviously, he was going to have to hire a private detective. Maybe Vincent Nolan, whoever he was, had nothing to do with Philly. Maybe he was a relative or a friend of his mother. Maybe he was her secret lover, and she kept his name safe so his father would never find out. The thought was so ludicrous, he burst out laughing.

  “Who the hell are you, Vincent Nolan?” Ricky shouted. He was glad no one could hear him because he felt so stupid.

  It was past noon when Ricky returned home. All he could do was sit and think while he waited for Roxy to call him. The minute he entered the house, he started to pace. His head was so full of thoughts and memories, he thought he was going to explode. He knew he was approaching the situation all wrong. H
e felt scattered.

  Philly would have a plan. He’d approach everything logically, then follow through on the steps he’d outlined. It wasn’t that Ricky didn’t trust his own judgment—he did. He knew in his gut he was afraid of what he was going to find out. Afraid he’d fail Philly, and in failing Philly, fail himself.

  The phone rang. Roxy? His hello was exuberant. His tone stayed exuberant when he heard Max’s voice coming over the wire. Max was almost as good as Roxy. “Is something wrong, Max?”

  “No. I just had this crazy urge to talk to you. I’m up to my eyeballs with plans for Carnival, but all of a sudden, this weird feeling came over me…do you need me?”

  Hell, yes, I need you. “You know what, son, I do. Not in the physical sense at the moment. I’m wired, as you guys like to say.” He related the morning’s events and waited for his son’s comments. He started to make coffee again, just to have something to do.

  “Skip the private dick. If I were you, I’d sic Gracie on this. She’s always talking about her sources. Let her put her money where her mouth is. Don’t take that wrong now. I didn’t mean it the way it sounds. How are the dogs and the article? Did she finish it?”

  “The dogs are fine. She thinks the pups will be ready to start nursing maybe later today. She’s got a handle on it. I like her, Max. A lot. By the way, Roxy is on her way here. Tyler’s going to Camellia Island until we can sort through all of this.

  “Gracie promised me a copy of her article this afternoon. It’s going to get the front page of the Entertainment section next Sunday. When she brings it over, I’ll fax it to you. Why don’t you invite her for Carnival? I think the girl could use a bit of a break.”

  “Do you think so?”

  Ricky grinned at his son’s hopeful voice. “If someone gave me an airline ticket and the promise of a week in Antigua for Carnival, I think I’d hop right on it.”

  “I’ll think about it. What are you going to do, Ricky?”