Diamonds Aren't Forever

by Connie Shelton

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  Not at all. But she forced a smile to her lips. “I’ll manage.”

  He carefully placed the necklace of fake stones back into the velveteen bag she’d carried in. “The tea’s gone cold, I’m sure, but I can have Juliane brew another pot if that would help.”

  “Thank you, Regis, but no. I need to be on my way.”

  She drove the familiar route up the mountain to her home. As she was getting out of her Mercedes, her cell phone rang. Detective Caplin wasted no words.

  “I’ve been back in touch with Todd Wainwright, one of the assistants to the director of the Philpont.”

  “Yes—did he have any ideas about all of this?”

  “He’s now claiming their expert spotted the necklace as a fake a long time ago. Says they assumed you substituted a copy for their display to keep the real one out of danger.”

  “That’s absurd! Detective, you don’t actually believe him, do you? They signed a receipt when they accepted the loan, stating they understood the piece’s true value. I countersigned, acknowledging I had the loaned item insured under my own policy. To say, all these months later, that they never had the real necklace—” She sputtered, practically speechless.

  “If you can produce that receipt, it would contradict what they’re saying now, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, but it doesn’t make them any more liable for the loss than they were before.”

  Pen felt her blood pressure rise, her heart thumping in her chest. She wanted to scream at him—something she’d never done, ever, in her life. English decorum had been bred in her and taught from her earliest days. The rudest move she could make was to hang up on him. She did so.

  With shaking hands she unlocked her front door. Normally, Naomi would still be here, finishing her housekeeping duties for the day, preparing Penelope a simple dinner before going home to her own family. But Thursday was her day off and Pen faced an empty house. A good thing, she decided, still feeling as if she could bite the detective’s head off.

  Her phone rang again as she deposited her things on the hall table.

  “What?” she answered with uncharacteristic abruptness.

  “Mrs. Fitzpatrick, sorry to bother you again. It’s Sandy, from the bank. I just thought I would check back with you, see if you’re all right.”

  To her utter surprise, Penelope broke down in sobs. “I’m … fine.”

  “It doesn’t sound that way,” Sandy said, a tender note in her voice. “Can I do something for you? Meet you somewhere? I get off work in fifteen minutes. I could …”

  Pen felt tears drip off her chin.

  “Do you have anyone with you?” Sandy asked. “How about food—do you have anything for dinner? I could bring you something to eat.”

  A smile crossed Penelope’s face. Sandy clearly wanted to take care of her. As if she were needy or poor. The offer was surprisingly touching, something no one had done for her in a very long time. She caught herself nodding, then remembered to speak.

  “Dinner would be lovely, dear. But don’t you have a family to get home to?”

  “I don’t. Aside from my cats, Heckle and Jeckle, I am as free as the proverbial bird. Shall we meet somewhere?”

  Pen glanced around with a moment’s hesitation. She’d already been burned by someone she thought she could trust, someone she had allowed into her home. On the other hand, she had no desire to go back out tonight and she’d known Sandy Werner for years.

  “Come to my place. Bring whatever you’re in the mood for. No, wait. Do you like pizza? I so rarely get a good slice of pizza—bring that.”

  Sandy laughed at the other end of the line. “Absolutely. I know an excellent pizza place. I’ll phone in the order and be there … well, I guess you’d better give me your address.”

  Pen found it reassuring that Sandy had not gone into the bank’s records to find out where she lived—she appreciated the privacy. She gave directions and Sandy said she could be there in thirty minutes.

  Company for the evening would be nice, would help take her mind off today’s shocking events. She went to her bedroom, changing from her silk blouse and narrow skirt to soft, loose pants and a fitted T-shirt. She gathered up her chin-length, pale blonde hair with a clip and added a touch of tinted lip balm to bring a hint of color back to her face.

  Say what you will about aging, she thought as she stood by the cheval mirror in her room, I still look damn fine for seventy-two. She gave herself a little smile of encouragement. She’d escaped war-torn Britain as a child and outlived two husbands, the second trying his best to make off with what little she had inherited from the first. She’d dealt with crooks and criminals, snobs and socialites, and more than one man who thought he could or should control her life—and she had survived them all. Somehow she would get through this anguish, as well.

  She firmed up the smile, thrust her shoulders back and went to the kitchen, where she located a bottle of red wine. Pairing wines with meats and seafood was something she felt comfortable with; choosing the right one to go with pizza was a bit new. The one she opened might be overkill for the occasion, but as any good American would say—what the heck.

  Chapter 10

  Headlights skimmed the far wall of her living room as Sandy Werner pulled into the roundabout and parked. Penelope watched through the side glass as Sandy got out of her car and stared in wonder at the house. After a moment, though, she gathered her poise and picked up a cardboard pizza box from the backseat of her Mazda. She started slightly when she realized Penelope was standing in the open doorway, watching.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, I can’t help but say it—this place is awesome.”

  “First off, it’s Penelope—Pen, if you wish—I can’t manage to share wine and a pizza if we have a lot of formalities standing in the way. About the property, thanks. I chose it after my first decent advance on a book. My first husband and I lived in Chicago most of our twenty years together. I became weary of the cold, so I visited Phoenix for a month to get away and decide where my life would go. I never left.”

  She ushered her guest toward the kitchen.

  “I hope this wine is the right thing,” she said.

  Sandy smiled, immediately at ease, and Pen realized the banker was no stranger to clients of great wealth, although it was likely she seldom visited their homes.

  “I doubt you could go wrong when it comes to a wine for pizza.” She set the box on the granite countertop and lifted the lid. “I got half pepperoni and half veggies. I should have asked what you wanted.”

  Penelope breathed deeply. “It all smells heavenly. Here are the glasses. Would you pour while I get plates?”

  She switched on quiet background music and they sat at the breakfast table with its view of the glittering lights of the city spread out below.

  “Sorry it was such a rough day for you,” Sandy said. She raised her glass. “Here’s to better tomorrows.”

  Pen flexed her eyebrows and nodded. Half a slice later, she began to recount her visit with the jeweler followed by the call to the police department. “And then the museum’s absurd claim that they knew the necklace was a fake all along? Ridiculous! I’ll have to fight them on that, most certainly. Otherwise, I don’t really know what to do next.”

  “It was insured, I assume?”

  “Yes, but how does one replace a family heirloom? My real necklace is worth more than a million dollars, the value of the stones alone. Its real value, as a piece designed for the tsarina, is priceless. A check from a corporation isn’t going to replace it, I’m afraid.”

  “An insurance company will have investigators. With a payout that large, they’ll go to great lengths to get the necklace back.”

  “For themselves—not for me. If I accept their check, I’m afraid I may never get the necklace back. It will belong to them and they’ll sell it for a fortune, and that’s just not right.” She stopped, downed the last of her wine and refilled both glasses.

  Sandy took a
nother slice of the pepperoni. “So, what will you do?”

  Pen shook her head sadly. “I don’t know. I can’t seem to think rationally today.”

  “You know what we should do?” Sandy said. “We should find out who this stupid fake investigator is and then steal the necklace back.”

  “Steal it back?”

  “Sure.”

  “The two of us?”

  Sandy chewed slowly, her eyes rolling upward as she thought. “We’ll need a team. I’m pretty good with computer searches, but there’s got to be someone who is truly a whiz at it. We’ll get her to … I don’t know … hack into some big database of criminals and get his name.”

  “And we’ll automatically know where to find him, based on that?”

  “Well, let’s take this a step at a time. We can do it.”

  Pen drained her glass and realized they were halfway through a second bottle. A tiny voice inside told her she should not be making such a major decision right now. Could she trust Sandy? The voice chided: what have I got to lose?

  “Okay, I’m switching to water,” Sandy said, setting her wine glass down and rubbing her temples. “It’s not a long drive for me, but I need to get home safely and then I have to wake up functional at seven in the morning.”

  Sandy folded the empty pizza box and asked where the trash basket was, then helped herself to a tumbler of water at the dispenser on the refrigerator door.

  “I meant what I said about helping, Pen. I told you how I feel about very special pieces of jewelry. Now that I know a bit more about the history of this one, I can’t stand to think of this shyster getting away with it. Not to mention, if he’s this smooth about it then I’m sure it’s not his first crime. Or his last. If the police aren’t going to chase him down, then we will.” She set the tumbler down with a clack against the counter. “So, I’ll get out of your hair now, but I’m going to give this some thought. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  Pen still felt slightly giddy as she closed the door behind Sandy. Was it possible? Could she and a few friends actually solve this crime?

  Chapter 11

  Even at midnight, there probably wasn’t a completely dark spot in the city. Street lights, traffic headlights, security lighting were everywhere, but here beneath the 202 overpass in east Mesa was as close to total darkness as a person could find.

  Todd Wainwright pulled his Corvette into the deepest shadow, nervously peering every direction, wary of every slight movement. The idea of drug addicts or homeless people lurking around squeaky-clean Mesa was almost ludicrous. Almost. One never knew.

  He spotted the other car and knew by the license tag it was one of the men he was supposed to meet. He steered toward it and stopped, the driver’s side window of his low-slung car placing him a few inches below the corresponding side of the other vehicle. It felt like a disadvantage, as if he was the shortest guy at a cocktail party. Which shouldn’t bother him—frequently, he was.

  Both windows slid down. The men’s eyes met. Todd looked for any sign of his own nervousness reflected in the other expression. There was none.

  “So, where’s Dick?” he said to the man across the way.

  “Told you on the phone, I haven’t heard from him all day. He told me yesterday he’d be here.” The man glanced at his watch. “Any minute now.”

  Todd’s stomach had been in knots for weeks, beginning the day he agreed to switch those documents in the Director’s file cabinet. It all came down to this, tonight, the moment he would receive his share. Until he had that money in his hands he wouldn’t relax. He looked at his dashboard clock. 12:17. Two minutes late.

  Nothing to worry about. Except he noticed the other man’s eyes darting every direction, watching rear and side mirrors, ahead, behind.

  A car passed along Power Road, slowing. Both men became extra alert but it was soon obvious the car had slowed only to make the turn to the on-ramp. It entered the freeway and disappeared.

  I’m not a bad person. Todd thought of his own culpability in this affair. When questioned by police he’d apologized profusely for the fact he’d accidentally forgotten to arm the security system that night six months ago.

  12:38. Todd wriggled in his seat, impatient but wary of showing it. He was the youngest of the three men and they’d unabashedly treated him as the junior member.

  “Can you call him?” he asked the guy across from him.

  The man gave an irritated glare, but picked up his phone and pressed a number. He gnawed his lower lip while it rang. After a few seconds, he held the phone out and stared at the display, checking the signal strength. Listened again.

  “No answer.”

  “How long should we wait?”

  “We wait. Until he comes.”

  As particular as Dick Stone had been through the whole operation, the way each move was timed to the minute, Todd couldn’t believe he’d simply allowed himself to run late now. Maybe there’d been an accident. These freeways were notorious for bumper-to-bumper crazy drivers.

  At midnight?

  Maybe Dick had gotten a ticket or something, or was stopped by a cop. Todd glanced at the other car. Nah. That wouldn’t have happened. He thought once more of the precision timing of the museum robbery.

  Todd’s bosses had mildly questioned his need to work late that night, but he’d been smart enough to do it another time or two before, so the important occasion didn’t stand out. The Assistant Director had put Todd in charge of checking the descriptive placards for a new exhibit on the mining history of Arizona to be set up Monday morning. Plus, no one else wanted to work late on a Sunday night.

  Exactly as instructed, he’d ‘remembered’ the alarm twenty minutes later on his way home and rushed back to remedy his mistake. No, he didn’t check the contents of the museum. He’d merely set the code and gone on home. Except that wasn’t quite the whole story.

  He’d gotten away with it. Only one other person besides the man sitting in the other car right now could reveal the truth and send him to prison.

  Chapter 12

  Pen woke with a headache, a reminder she’d not consumed more than two glasses of wine in an evening for quite a number of years. Her entire head resonated with an insistent din. When it did not stop and she opened her eyes tentatively, she realized the noise came from her bedside telephone.

  “Penelope, it’s Sandy. I’ve already found someone and she’s got a recommendation for our computer whiz.”

  What on earth? Pen felt like mumbling instructions that Sandy must wait until she’d at least risen from bed, put on her robe and brushed her teeth, but her mother’s teachings on decorum forbade admitting one was still in bed at—heavens!—nine-thirty in the morning, much less responding in anything less than an entirely composed tone of voice.

  She ran the fingers of her left hand through her hair, as if that might be a suitable substitute for combing it. Sandy continued to talk.

  “It’s a good friend. I absolutely trust her, although I’ll leave it up to you to decide how much to tell about the necklace. Anyway, Gracie can tell you her own reasons for joining us.”

  Fragments of last night’s loosely conceived plan came back to Pen as Sandy kept talking. The police were unhelpful, an insurance claim was out—the women would steal her necklace back from the crook who’d swindled her.

  “Can you make it?” Sandy said.

  Pen had to admit to letting her thoughts drift and asked Sandy to repeat.

  “Lunch today, one o’clock at Brimmer’s. I figured by going a little later we’d pretty much have the place to ourselves, and Gracie’s husband is available to pick up their daughter and take her to ballet.”

  A child and a husband? School and ballet? How is this ever going to work? Pen squashed her doubts and agreed to the meeting. It couldn’t hurt to talk about it.

  In the bathroom, she swallowed two aspirin with a large glass of water and stepped into the shower. Twenty minutes later she felt like a new woman. Last night’s excitement
began to return, the idea she could have a hand in retrieving her lost treasure and she didn’t need the police to do so. Well, it sounded good in theory anyway.

  She thought about the place they were meeting for lunch, a casual sandwich shop in nearby Mesa, popular with college kids and young mothers. Pen knew of it only by its reputation. She chose tan slacks and a light peach cotton sweater for the occasion.

  Breakfast consisted of a bowl of fruit and Greek yogurt, drizzled with honey and sprinkled with slivered almonds. Pen was glad she’d given Naomi an extra day off. Now she could concentrate on the plan she and Sandy had discussed only in the broadest terms last night.

  She remembered Detective Caplin’s offer for her to look at their collection of mug shots and, although the idea of paging through books in some cubicle of a room downtown didn’t hold much appeal, she supposed she should do it. A vestigial twinge from her headache pinged her forehead. She decided she could visit Caplin tomorrow.

  She spent the morning watering the bright, potted geraniums on her back terrace and jotting notes pertaining to the necklace—any little thing that might help locate it. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much. She had a hard time thinking beyond her anger at the police for not handling this more efficiently in the first place.

  She arrived at Brimmer’s a little early—the trip was quicker than she’d anticipated—and sat in her car until she saw Sandy Werner’s blue Mazda pull into the lot at precisely 12:57. They walked inside together.

  A woman with long, brunette hair waved from a far corner table. She stood and smiled. Dark eyes, dimples bracketing perfectly aligned teeth, slender athletic build, probably five-six or so. Penelope guessed she was in her mid-thirties.

  “Penelope Fitzpatrick,” the woman gushed. “I couldn’t believe it when Sandy said I would get to meet you today. I’m a huge fan—huge. I mean, your book jackets say you live in the Southwest but I assumed somewhere artsy … well, like, Sedona or Taos or someplace.”