Garage Sale Diamonds (Garage Sale Mystery)

by Suzi Weinert

  The only customer at the moment, she smiled agreeably at the two jewelers behind the counter. “How many Blumenthal sons are there?” she asked cheerfully.

  “Actually, three but one became a lawyer so that leaves two. My brother and I manage the store and our father, who’s been in the business over sixty years, still comes to work almost every day to run our repair shop.”

  “Then you were both born to the business, so to speak?”

  “I guess that’s right,” said the tall brother. “How may we help you today?”

  “I hope you can tell me the value of some gems.”

  “We’ll help if we can. Do you want a written appraisal?” the short brother asked.

  “No. For today, just a ballpark idea of their worth.”

  As she extracted the five plastic bags from her purse, “Tall” produced a velvet-lined tray from behind the counter and “Short” helped her line up each stone with its corresponding numbered bag across the tray’s plush expanse.

  Each of the brothers pressed a loupe to one eye, picked up a stone and squinted at it. A long moment passed as they turned the stones in their fingers for a thorough visual inspection. Putting them down at last, the brothers exchanged looks before focusing on Jennifer. Saying nothing, they each picked up a second gem and repeated the same process, eyeing her afterward with more curiosity. Tall gave the fifth diamond a cursory glance, apparently deciding it matched the others. Laying their loupes on the counter, the brothers again exchanged meaningful looks.

  Well,” said Short, “these are real diamonds, all right, and high quality. They’re almost too perfect, virtually flawless, which is unusual enough to suggest they might be man-made.” He chuckled. “When something appears too good to be true, it often is. I’d like to do some tests to be sure.”

  “Tests?”

  “Yes, first I’d put the diamond in an electronic color meter, an enclosed compartment showing how light comes through the stone. The light reveals the stone’s color range. Then I’d use a binocular diamond scope to reveal even more clarity. Think of it as a microscope that shows much more detail than this ten-power loupe. Last, I’d check the diamond’s thermal conductivity.”

  Noticing Jennifer’s eyebrows furrow, he explained. “Diamonds conduct heat better than anything, five times better than the second-best element, which is silver, so most diamonds show high thermal conductivity and most imitations don’t.”

  “May I take a look at the stones with your loupe?” she asked Tall.

  “Of course.” He handed it to her and she imitated his earlier one-eyed squint until the diamond swam into focus. This magnification, much greater than the desk magnifying glass she’d used at home, revealed the diamond’s myriad tiny, tilted flat surfaces.

  “You’re probably noticing the facets,” Short volunteered. “Basically, the more facets, the more surfaces to catch light and the more light refracted, the more it sparkles and shows its fire. The facets are the diamond’s cut. When we say ‘cut’ we don’t mean the shape of the diamond, we mean the craftsman’s skill in transforming the raw stone to release its brilliance and beauty. When a diamond is cut to ideal proportions, all the light entering from any direction is totally reflected—refracted—through the top and dispersed into a display of sparkling flashes and rainbow colors.”

  With the loupe’s magnification and the store’s bright illumination, she did indeed see light and colors dancing in the stone as she twisted it about. “Amazing,” she marveled. “How many of these surfaces, these facets, can you get on so tiny a stone?”

  Tall said, “Your stones aren’t tiny. The original standard for hand-cut diamonds was fifty-eight facets, but then gem cutters developed a King Cut with eighty-six facets and a Magna Cut with 102. The latest, a Dutch patent, uses modern machine cutting technology to create 121 facets.”

  “Remarkable,” Jennifer allowed, still staring at the diamond with the loupe. “All my diamond jewelry pieces were gifts. I liked their sparkly appearance in beautiful settings without thinking how they were made. Their value to me was that someone chose them to surprise and please me. But now I’m curious. What makes a diamond valuable?”

  Short laughed. “Do you want the technical explanation or the holistic version?”

  Jennifer smiled. “How about holistic first?”

  Short became serious. He selected one of Jennifer’s stones. “A ‘perfect’ diamond similar to this one is awesome because it’s sixty-five million years old. It survived the trauma of originating inside an underground volcano that pushed it up through alluvial pipes only to be buried under soil or rock or river eddies where it might have been ground by giant glaciers. This tumbling through nature’s washing machine was just the first step in the history of this diamond because it takes, generally speaking, three tons of mineral ore—or earth as it’s called—to yield one carat. Diamond cutters are human and all humans make mistakes. It could have fallen into inexperienced hands. But the cutter of this diamond knew what he had and used all his experience, knowledge and talent to execute a totally professional job. Even though we’ll never know who he was, his profound signature exists on this stone. So nature created this from our living planet, but man released its beauty and brilliance.”

  Tall summarized. “Three amazing things converged to produce the breath-taking stone we see here: First, that it ever survived the overwhelming stresses of nature like millions of years of heat and extreme pressure. Second, that since they’re hard to find this was ever discovered and dug up, and last, that it happened to fall into the hands of a cutter so remarkably skilled he coaxed the flawless beauty out of what’s really a chunk of carbon.”

  “Wow.” Jennifer clapped her hands. “You love what you do and it’s contagious. Now I’m almost afraid to ask about the technical part.”

  “Never fear, we know that, too.” Short grinned.

  39

  Saturday, 11:15 AM

  “What makes a diamond valuable?” Tall repeated Jennifer’s question and smiled patiently. “How much time have you to learn? Okay, there are a number of criteria but let’s start with the unique combination of their four Cs.”

  “Four Cs?”

  “That’s right. I’ve already mentioned cut, which is the most important of the four Cs. The other three are clarity, carat and color. Clarity is about naturally occurring inner flaws called inclusions; the fewer inclusions, the greater the brilliance. The size, nature, location and amount of inclusions determine a diamond’s clarity grade and affect its cost. The eleven grades of clarity inclusions we measure range from none, minute, minor, noticeable and obvious. The clarity grade of your diamonds,” he gestured toward the velvet tray, “appears to be none.”

  Tall added, “The next ‘C’ is carat or the unit of weight for diamonds. One carat is 200 milligrams. A carat is divided into 100 points, so half a carat would have fifty points.

  “The last ‘C’ is color. This impacts price the most.” Tall continued. “Even diamonds which appear colorless actually have slight tones of pale yellow to brown. But other colors are also possible, like blue, green, orange, red and even black.”

  Jennifer hoped her face didn’t show the amazement she felt. “I had no idea but, thanks to you, I do now.”

  “Well,” Short chuckled, “the four Cs help, but the jewelry part of the diamond industry is pretty complex. We’ve been exposed to it since childhood but learn something new almost every day.”

  Tall picked up the tray. “So let me take these into the back room to weigh the carats, measure their height and diameter with a gauge and do the other tests I mentioned. Then I should have a ballpark idea for you. Please excuse me for a moment.”

  “Thank you.” Jennifer wandered around the shop, looking at twinkling diamonds and other jewelry gleaming in the pristine display cases. But after five minutes she felt impatient and then uneasy. What took so long?

  A few years ago the Washington Post had reported the arrest of a jeweler in Great Falls whose cust
omers accused him of switching their valuable gems for inexpensive substitutes. As that story made the rounds, friends told her how hard reputable jewelers work to develop a trusted relationship with their clientele. She knew nothing about this store. Were they switching her stones in the back room? Were they checking her gems against lists of stolen property? Would police swarm in at any moment to arrest her? Would they even believe her honest garage-sale explanation? She tried unsuccessfully to curb her overactive imagination.

  Just then the brothers returned to the counter with an older man who carried the velvet tray. “This is my father, Abraham Blumenthal. May I ask your name please?”

  Jennifer blanched. She wanted anonymity with politeness since they’d given their time and knowledge to evaluate her “broken glass.” “Betty,” Jennifer surprised herself by saying.

  Abraham nodded. “Betty,” he began, “it’s not uncommon for someone to bring a jeweler a box of what they think is costume jewelry with some fine pieces of real jewelry mixed in. Good jewelry could be found in a bag in the pocket of clothes bought at a second-hand sale. Sometimes people buy the contents of a storage locker and find valuable jewelry tucked among the junk. You have five exceptional diamonds here. With their one full carat size, their D-grade colorless color, flawless clarity and ideal cut, they are probably in the upper one percent of quality stones. These are some of the finest diamonds I’ve seen during my years in the business.”

  “D-grade for color doesn’t sound exceptional,” Jennifer said. “At least, it wouldn’t be in school.”

  “This is a totally different system. Diamonds are rated from D to Z, with most falling between D and J. D is the highest color in this system.”

  “I see.” Jennifer tried to hide her surprise at her gems’ high rating.

  “May I ask how you happen to have such fine stones?”

  Uh-oh, what to say now? Blurt out the truth? She studied the counter, groping for an answer. “It’s a long story,” she managed. They gave her a penetrating look but seemed to accept this as she recovered her poise. “Could you please tell me their value?”

  “You have five stones, similar but not identical. Three are slightly larger but they are matched in the sense they’re of the same quality and cut and so may be from the same source.”

  “…and their value?”

  “Appraisal value of the three largest is about $11,000 each and the other two about $10,000 each. That’s their appraisal value, which is your cost to replace them, if lost. Their over-the-counter value would be less.”

  “I don’t understand. Isn’t the value constant?”

  Tall prepared to answer, but his father spoke instead. “Please forgive my bluntness, but allow me to explain with simple economics. Businesses like ours operate for profit. If we paid you $10,000 for a stone we later sold for $10,000, we made no profit to pay overhead like rent and salaries. Soon we’d be out of business. So if we sell this stone to replace a $10,000 appraised diamond someone lost, we must buy that diamond for less than $10,000 in order to make a profit. What you put here on the tray retails for about $50,000. We’d offer you less to make our profit, but we are willing to negotiate with you to buy your diamonds.”

  Jennifer smiled, showing her appreciation for his candor and business lesson. “Thank you for explaining.” Although she and Jay had found 286 stones so far, if the remaining fourteen turned up as calculated, they’d have 300. Factoring that even number proved far easier as she mentally multiplied $10,000 times 300 stones. Over three million dollars? She struggled to hide her reaction to this staggering information.

  “One last question.” She spread open one of the papers that had wrapped the diamonds. “Does this paper have any watermarks or other identifiers to verify its origin?”

  Father and sons examined it. “No. Looks like standard jewelry paper. Unlike writing paper, you notice it’s very soft and pliable—to protect stones from scratching. These papers come in various colors, usually pastels, but nothing about this distinguishes it from other jewelry papers.”

  Learning more from the paper was her last clue, one going nowhere. With a sinking feeling, she realized now whoever owned these valuable diamonds must want them back. Did they know she had them? Could they? If they found out, to what lengths would they go to retrieve them?

  Sobered by this thought, she politely thanked the three jewelers, put her diamonds in their numbered bags and the bags into the manila envelope. She fought a rising paranoia. Darting an anxious look outside the shop’s large windows at the distance from the store to her vehicle, she dashed to her car. Once in the driver’s seat, she locked the car’s doors. Troubled by her strong intuition to take these precautions, she winced at the irony of this positive windfall already involving dangerous negatives.

  Fifteen minutes later she pulled into her own garage, lowered the automatic door behind her and rushed into the house. Hoping not to alert the Grands, she hurried to find Jason in the kitchen.

  “Well? What did you learn?”

  “You won’t believe it, Jay. Hold onto your hat…”

  40

  Saturday, 11:40 AM

  “Not ‘hold onto your hat…,’” Jason moaned, “a phrase I’ve grown to fear.” He sank heavily into a chair and added in a mock whimper. “I’m almost afraid to ask…”

  “First, are the Grands busy so we can talk?”

  “Yes. Saturday morning cartoons.”

  She described her jewelry store experience. “Now that we know the five diamonds they examined are real, do we assume the rest are, too?”

  Jason leaned his head back and closed his eyes, considering. “Seems logical, wrapped together in those packages. And if they are real, should we start treating them like the $3,000,000 they might be worth? Right now they’re stuffed in a kitchen drawer. I could put them in the wall safe upstairs until we figure out what to do next.”

  “Wait, maybe not. Unless the owner of the diamonds is dead, Jay, won’t he want them back? I have a feeling the stones shouldn’t stay here at the house. Maybe a bank lockbox is a smarter choice, where they’re safe, away from the house and in a public place.”

  “Hmmm, I hadn’t considered that but maybe you’re right. Is the bank still open?”

  She checked the kitchen clock. “Yes, until noon on Saturdays. If I hustle, I can just make it. She grabbed a clean sock from the stack of laundry on one end of the dining room table. “Stuff the diamonds in here. The lockbox key is in the den. I’ll get the car out of the garage. Meet me in front of the house with the key and the sock. Please hurry, Jay. We haven’t a moment to spare.”

  Moments later, she drove purposefully toward the McLean Bank, arriving at 11:52. Years earlier the Shannons had picked this local bank instead of the branch of a major chain. Feeling less like a number and more like a remembered-client, they knew most employees by name and appreciated the small-town feel and attention of the staff.

  Jennifer swerved into a spot in front of the bank and hustled out of the car. Clutching her purse into which she’d stuffed the sock and key, she rushed inside.

  Surprised to find no other patrons in line, she moved directly to a teller’s window. “Hello, Millie,” she said, slightly out of breath. “May I get into my lockbox, please?”

  Millie glanced at the clock. “Hello, Mrs. Shannon. Looks like you’re here with scant minutes to spare.” She chuckled. “I’ll ask Heather to help you with your safety deposit box. Have your key?”

  “I do.”

  Ignoring proximity to closing time, Heather smiled pleasantly and led Jennifer into the vault housing safety deposit boxes. A separate area, this section was not in view of the lobby.

  “May I ask you to sign in?”

  “Of course. This step authenticates my signature in addition to producing the key, right?”

  Heather nodded. “The bank allows only authorized owners to access their lock boxes. This cross-check system is a proven tool.” Though she knew Jennifer, she still compared today’s signatu
re with previous ones on her box’s ledger page. “Now, may I have your key please?” Jennifer held up her personal key and Heather supplied the bank’s key. Together these keys unlocked the box. Heather pulled out the long, thin metal drawer.

  “This privacy booth has a shelf for the box while you’re working here. When you finish, just come to the front of the vault so we can secure the box together.”

  “Thanks, Heather. I know you’re about to close for the weekend and promise I won’t be long.”

  Jennifer had no need to examine the wills and other documents already in the box. Adding the sock of diamonds, she closed the box’s lid and alerted Heather she’d completed her task.

  “That took no time at all,” Heather marveled. “Would you like an M&M?” She held up a small bag. “These are my mini-weakness.”

  “Who can resist Mars, Inc’s most famous invention?” Jennifer took a bunch.

  “You know they don’t operate like most businesses.”

  “What do you mean?” Jennifer asked.

  “They don’t advertise their location the way most companies do. Their headquarters building is just down the road on Elm Street but so low-key you can hardly find it. And their fortune comes from making outstanding products the old-fashioned way, not from sneaky insider deals like some wealthy big businesses.”

  Jennifer popped another M&M into her mouth and nodded. “For giving the world these outrageous chocolates, they deserve every penny.”

  Jennifer was the bank’s last customer of the day. When she left, Heather activated special automatic door locks. Most patrons didn’t know the doors that appeared to push right open were always electrically locked until an employee pressed a button temporarily releasing them for each approaching customer. This made it easy to exclude someone sinister. The employee’s challenge: distinguishing customers from criminals.

  41

  Saturday, 12:16 PM

  Certain the Grands waited impatiently for lunch, Jennifer phoned Jason. “Hi, Hon. This diamond stuff played havoc with my morning schedule. I’m leaving the bank now. McDonald’s is only a few blocks away. How about bringing the kidlets and I’ll meet you there for lunch? Okay, fifteen minutes? Great! I’ll stake out a table since Saturday noontime gets busy. Maybe ask the children what they want so they’re ready when they get in line? Good. Thanks, Jay.”