by Ginny Aiken
“You can’t help yourself, can you? You have to go and show how little you do know about gemstones. What you saw on the set yesterday is a garnet. One of the rarest stones on earth.” “Look. I’m not some lonely disabled grandma with only the TV and a clicker to keep me company. I can see how they’ll buy—in more ways than one—anything they hear from slick shopping network hosts.”
“Ick! That’s a nasty way to look at our customers.”
He shrugs. “I bet it’s a realistic one.”
“And you would know how?”
He stands taller. “I’ve been on TV for a number of years. Something you can’t match.”
“True. I haven’t been on TV before, but I’ve spent my entire adult life studying gems. Something you can’t match. I do know what a spessartite garnet is.”
He crosses his arms and studies me. I don’t like the warm sensations that run through me when those baby blues land on me. He looks too good for my comfort zone.
Uh-oh. How shallow is that? Not good. Gotta pray about it. And build a big, fat wall to protect myself from that scary effect Max the Magnificent has on me.
“Look,” he finally says. “I didn’t just barge onto that set yesterday. Miss Mona did hire me.”
I don’t like it, but he’s right. “She did.”
“And she hired you too. Didn’t she?”
He better not think he’s gonna chase me away. I tip up my chin. “She and my Aunt Weeby conspired and connived to get me to take the job. They want me for my gemological knowledge.”
“But they don’t want your on-screen ignorance, do they?” Ouch! “Just as they don’t want your gemological ignorance.”
“But that’s the beauty. I’m multifaceted.”
He really does have a killer smile. Why me?
Then I realize what he said—the guy does distract, know what I mean? “Multifaceted? I didn’t know we were going into weather changes now.”
“We’re not, but I am an expert on golf, basketball, football, skiing, and even NASCAR. See?”
Hope springs eternal. “Oh! You mean you’re going to handle a part of the network’s sports catalog.”
“I should hope they don’t waste my knowledge.”
Relief is sweet and welcome. I smile. “I’ve never known Aunt Weeby or Miss Mona to let anything go to waste. I would imagine your days as a gemstone host are numbered.”
“Fine by me.”
And then I hear it. That familiar thump-thump that warns the innocent of incoming trouble.
“Awww . . .” Aunt Weeby sighs. “Isn’t that sweet, Mona? They do look just like some of them dolls on a big ol’ wedding cake. They make the nicest couple.”
“I told you they would, right from the minute I saw him,” her sidekick answers. “The good Lord’s given me great instincts.”
To his credit, Max gulps, turns a sickly shade of green, then backs away from me as fast as his shuffling feet can go.
Now wait a minute! I don’t like Aunt Weeby’s and Miss Mona’s meddling, but I’m not a bubonic plague carrier either. I glare, and turn on the troublemaker.
“What are you doing here?” I ask my aunt. “Last I knew, you were settled in with your third cup of coffee, your second biscuit, and your HDTV blaring Tony Danza on his talk show.”
“Mona stopped by on her way to work. I reckon being here’s more fun than watching women what got their stomachs stapled and their boobs blowed up. That’s what that boy’s got on his show this morning. Besides, you showed me how to TiVo the thing so’s I can watch my programs later.”
Foiled by advanced technology. I’d bought her the TV thinking it would keep her entertained while she recovered.
Great idea, right? See how well it worked? I call it the Aunt Weeby effect.
In the hope of regaining some control over the conversation, if not my current situation, I tip my head toward the set. “Who’s on right now?”
“Wendy’s hosting our Fat Busters segment,” Miss Mona answers. “It’s very successful.”
“I’ll bet,” Max mutters. “Never heard of it.”
Neither have I. “What exactly is Fat Busters? Is it diet products? Exercise equipment?”
“Why, honey,” Miss Mona says, her eyes opened wide, “I can’t believe you haven’t heard of them. Fat Busters is the best thing in helping folks maintain their figures. It’s from China.”
Aunt Weeby nods.
Max gives me a don’t-ask-me look.
“Oh-kaaay. It’s popular and Chinese. Just exactly what is it?”
After a glance at her watch, Miss Mona points toward the set. “Since you and Max have plenty of time before your show, why don’t you go watch Wendy for a moment. I’m sure she explains better than I can.”
Wendy’s soft southern accent reaches us as we approach the set. “. . . viscosity polymers allow an amazing stretch. So, girls . . . ? Listen to me”—she raps her scarlet claws . . . er . . . fingernails on the show-host desk—“y’all want to make sure you get your set of Fat Busters before they run out. The sooner you get them, the sooner you’ll bust that fat around the gut and glutes.”
In her hand, Wendy holds . . .
“It’s a girdle!” Max exclaims just as tactfully as he denied the existence of spessartite garnets yesterday.
Everyone turns on him. “Shhhh!”
Miss Mona’s frown is nothing to mess with. “That’s not a girdle, Max. I’ll have you know it’s the finest and latest technology. Just listen to Wendy.”
“. . . for any of you just joining me now at the top of the hour, welcome! I’m so happy you can spend some time with me. Let’s have some fun and help each other out here. Oh yes. Before we go any further, let me introduce myself. My name is Wendy, and I’ll be with you for the next hour . . .”
Former cheerleader Wendy has the market cornered on perky.
“. . . isn’t it great? I’ll tell you, there’s not much advanced technology can’t do. Fat Busters are self-contained, fat-breaking bands that do their thing while you do yours—and they do it all day long! Isn’t that fabulous, girls? While you’re sweeping, dusting, or even scooping the cat litter, your Fat Busters are working for you . . .”
Okay. I’m as willing to give technology a chance as the next girl, but . . . “It’s a girdle.”
Max grins. “Told ya.”
“Can’t argue with fact.”
“And there’s no such thing as an orange garnet.”
“There is too.”
“No, there’s not.”
“Just because you can tell a girdle’s a girdle doesn’t mean you know diaspores from diamonds.”
“And I don’t really have to.”
“That day won’t come soon enough.”
“Amen.”
Oh yeah. I’m with him on that—if not on anything else.
8 00
“Fine,” I say, to avoid further confrontation. “I don’t know about you, but I have a show to prepare for, and I really need Allison’s fine touch with war paint after last night.”
Forty-five minutes after I submit to hair and makeup’s mercies, I’m—outwardly—ready for the show. That Max will again be at my side doesn’t help.
How am I going to approach Miss Mona about this? I have to get rid of him, and soon. We want the jewelry and gemstone program to succeed. And a know-nothing blond version of Barbie’s ex who used to read a weather teleprompter at some teeny local affiliate station in Who-Knows-Where, Missouri, isn’t going to help.
But I can’t go talk to her right now. I have to focus and do my best to overcome the six-foot-plus pain to my right.
With a prayer, I take my seat at the host’s desk. Max joins me. At least today we’re dealing in diamonds, not true exotics like the spessartite garnets. He says he knows what a diamond looks like.
We can only hope.
The show starts out fine. But so did yesterday’s. We fly through the entire stock of white diamond solitaires in minutes. We go to the phones, and the vie
wers tell us all about their jewelry collections, especially the pieces they’ve bought during Danni’s shows. There’s a whole lot of bling-bling finding homes!
“Ladies,” I say, “I’m thrilled you’re so happy with your purchases from us. And I’m honored to show you top-quality goods. The Shop-Til-U-Drop Network’s fabulous buyers negotiate to the penny, and that means we are able to buy the fine, VS clean, G-color white diamonds you’ve all snapped right up. I want to congratulate you on your excellent taste. Now let me show you another kind of diamond goodie.”
In my left hand, I hold tweezers with a gorgeous full-carat white diamond clamped in place. With the other, I take a second pair of tweezers, and pick up an equally excellent, full-carat champagne diamond.
“See the difference between these two stones?”
Max, who up to now had kept his comments to safe “Oh yeses” and “Wows!” leans forward. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “this is a perfect way to show you the difference between a superior diamond, like the one Andie has in her left hand, and this other, inferior, poor-color stone.”
Huh? My chin nearly clips the desk when I gape. “What are you talking about?” I shake the tweezers with the champagne stone at him. “Do you have any idea what this is?”
“Even I know a dirty diamond when I see one.”
“You’ve never heard of fancy-colored diamonds?”
“Everyone knows about J-Lo’s pink one.”
“But that’s not the only fancy color. Diamonds come—”
“Don’t tell me,” he cuts in with a devastating smile. Women of America drop like swooning flies. “Let me guess. I’ll bet you’re going to say diamonds come in all colors except blue, and that the rarest are the elusive mandarin orange spes-sartite diamonds.”
His smile never falters.
My temper comes to life. “No, Max. There’s no such thing as a mandarin orange spessartite diamond, and”—through gritted teeth—“you know it. Besides, as I’m sure all our savvy customers know, diamonds do come in blue. In fact, one of the world’s most famous diamonds, the Hope diamond, is blue.”
“Oh. Yeah. I guess I have heard of the Hope diamond. Isn’t it in the Smithsonian or something? But are you sure it’s blue?”
“It’s at the Smithsonian, and I’m sure it’s blue. Oh, and just FYI, the blue color comes from boron in its chemical composition.”
“I got it. Boron, which rhymes with moron, does the blue.” He rolls his eyes while I just stare, and then he points at my tweezers. “That, Andie, is no blue diamond.”
Let it go, let it go, let it go.
“And you, Max, traffic in the way too obvious. This gorgeous stone comes from the Argyle mines in Australia, and it’s what is known as a champagne diamond. See the golden glow, the orange, pink, and even red sparks when the light hits it? It’s wonderful.”
Max leans close. That clean, masculine scent of his cologne surrounds me. Too bad he’s such a lunkhead.
“Now that you mention it,” the lunkhead says, “it does kind of look like candlelight.”
This unexpected insight stuns me—almost as much as what I feel zip through me when he takes my hand to get a better look.
“Th—” Whoo-ee! He’s dangerous, all right. I catch myself before I fan my face. “That’s what this exact shade is actually called. Candlelight. How’d you know?”
“I didn’t.” He smiles into the camera. More women drop. “But just looking at it made me think of a romantic dinner, lit by tall, white, glowing candles.”
Oooohh, he’s good. From behind the camera, Sally gestures that the phone lines have gone ballistic thanks to Max. I’ve got to put the brakes on before this show turns into Romancing the Max.
“And that, ladies,” I say, “is exactly what you’ll be wearing on your finger . . . or near your heart. A memory of romance, of elegance, and that certain excitement that comes with life’s special moments. Now what girl wouldn’t love that?”
The show unravels from there on out. The good news is that we put a number of gushing customers through on the phones. The bad news is that they proclaim Max and me their favorite show hosts. I can’t believe there are people out there who can stand this seesaw between knowledge and . . . well, you decide. But they do buy diamonds. A lot of diamonds.
So we score a debacle again. A debacle about which everyone raves. You can’t account for taste.
By the time the network’s theme music brings the show to a close, I’m shot. It takes a lot out of you to keep up a conversation with America while you also do damage control for a lunk’s bloopers.
And, as if that’s not bad enough, when I reach the green room, where I left my briefcase before the show, my day takes a turn to the even worse. How, you ask?
Chief Clark is waiting for me.
Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby are with him, as well as what must be a plainclothes detective. I don’t really worry about the loony two—well, I do worry about them, just not the same way. They know I had nothing to do with Mr. Pak’s trip or with his death or even his turning up in our vault.
“Miss Andie,” the lawman says, “the coroner finished the autopsy, and Mr. Pak died of blunt-force trauma to the head, just like I figured he had.”
I fight the sadness, sigh, and then say, “Okay. I’m sorry he’s dead, and I will miss him. He was great to deal with, and he handled the finest rubies on earth. What I don’t get is why you felt the need to come all the way over here to share this.”
“Maybe”—he draws an envelope from his pocket—“this will help you ‘get’ why I came on over today. The coroner found it.”
I take the envelope, an official-looking, heavy vellum deal, with my name written in exquisite calligraphy. “How weird is this?”
The geriatric pals hustle over. Miss Mona peers over my shoulder and Aunt Weeby takes hold of my hand to bring the envelope close.
“Ooooh . . . ,” Miss Mona coos.
“Aaaah . . . ,” Aunt Weeby sighs.
“Whoa!” Max comes to a standstill just inside the door. “Did someone else die?”
Does this guy ever think before he blurts?
I jiggle the envelope in my hand—and Aunt Weeby’s. “No,
Max. No more corpses around here. The chief brought me this. He says the coroner found it on Mr. Pak while doing the . . . the autopsy.”
I just can’t get my head around the thought of someone cutting up a dead person to figure out what killed him. How can people do that day in and day out? I couldn’t, that’s for sure.
I mean, really. Think about it. Mr. Pak is dead. By the time a coroner gets a corpse, it’s cold, stiff. Certainly not the person anyone has known in life. A shudder runs through me. Dead bodies . . .
Then I realize everyone’s staring at me. “What? Did I do something wrong? Say something?”
“No, sugarplum.” Aunt Weeby pats my cheek. “But you just seemed to . . . oh, I don’t know. You seemed all spacey-like. Are you feeling peckish?”
Peckish . . . Great-Great-Grandma Willetta’s fish oil! Ugh.
I give her a hug and drop a kiss on her cheek. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking about Mr. Pak.”
“Well?” Max says. “Are you going to open it? Everyone’s waiting on you.”
“I doubt the chief is waiting with bated breath. He—or someone in his office—already opened it.”
I suspect they also checked it for fingerprints, even though I don’t see any of the black dust you see used on those CSI shows. The cover of the card has an ornate seal engraved in gold. My heart does a tap dance against my rib cage as I run my finger over the seal.
But that measly little tap dance is nothing compared to the stampede that breaks out when I read the message inside. “Oh! Oh, oh, oh! I—Oh. My. Goodness. I can’t believe this!”
“Andrea Autumn Adams! Get ahold a’ yourself, sugarplum. You’re spitting and spurting and making no sense at all. What is that card there all about?”
I’m near hyperventilati
ng, and I really don’t want to pass out. Not in front of Max the Magnificent, that’s for sure. But this is incredible—for a gemologist, that is.
“Oh, Miss Mona, look. You’re not going to believe this. It’s an invitation. I just don’t understand why he would have this with him, and why they’d invite me—us—in the first place.”
Miss Mona plunks her fists on her hips and gives me a stern look. “Who invited you? Who’s ‘us’? And what’d we get invited to? And where?”
I keep blinking, but the words still read the same. I hold out the card. “Here. You read it. I’m afraid I’m dreaming or hallucinating or . . . or something.”
My boss takes the card and seconds later she’s spitting and spurting, as Aunt Weeby said, just like I did.
“Andie, honey! Is this real? The government of Myanmar is really inviting us to visit their mines? You do know what kind of politicking trouble’s been going on out there, don’t you?”
“Of course I know. Mr. Pak, Roger, and I talked about Myanmar more’n a million times. It’s awful the oppression going on there—you know, the government squashes political parties, there’s forced labor of adults and kids, human trafficking. It’s bad.”
“And now this . . .” She waves the card.
“It looks real, don’t you think?”
She studies the card again. “I wouldn’t know real from not, but it sure does look like it’s official, at least someone important must have put it together. But I reckon we can check to see if it’s real. We can call the embassy—oh, that’s right. No diplomatic relations. They don’t have an embassy in the U.S., do they?”
A scrap of info tickles the back of my memory. “You know . . . the last time Mr. Pak came to New York, he mentioned that Myanmar had begun to offer thirty-day visas for tourist travel inside the country. They might have an embassy now.” I wave the invitation. “Do you think this might be part of that effort to open things up?”
“Who knows? Who cares? All I know is that this invitation is a golden opportunity for us, for the S.T.U.D. Network.”
“Okay,” I say, still unconvinced. “Tourism or not, that military dictatorship’s not crazy about Americans and Brits—one of those sanction deals. And our government isn’t crazy about them—that communism and organized violence against their people—the whole human rights issues thing.”
