by Ginny Aiken
“More like a field mined with piles of dog doo.”
“Care to explain?”
I sigh. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that we got shot at only after we bought material down at the market? And after the mine shaft was dynamited.”
“I haven’t given it much thought. Other than to be glad we got away without any unintended piercings.”
“What? You mean you didn’t want a freebie? You didn’t want to get yourself some of those oh-so-manly earrings or eyebrow thingies . . . Oh no. No, no, no! I know just what would look good on you. You’re the nose ring kind, like an ox.”
“And here I thought we were making progress.”
“Camping out in a third world airport is progress?”
“No, Andie. The airport isn’t progress. Talking without sniping is progress.”
I blush. Okay. I’m more than a little guilty here, but come on. This is Max, trouble for me. “You have to admit it’s kind of outrageous to take a job where you know nothing about the subject matter.”
“And you’ve got to admit I’ve got plenty of on-screen time under my belt.”
“True, but what good are you if you can’t contribute a thing to the show?”
“Who says I can’t?”
“You haven’t yet.”
“Doesn’t mean I won’t.”
“Maybe when barbecued sparerib dinners replace those jetliners in the skies.”
“And the pigs haven’t even left the runway yet.”
“I didn’t say it. You did.”
“Sometimes it’s better to take the jab at yourself before someone else throws you the knockout punch.”
I step back, look him from head to toe. “You don’t strike me like a guy who’s had much experience with that kind of punch.”
“You’d be surprised what I have and haven’t experienced.” “Can’t argue that. But I do know you haven’t experienced a course in gemology.”
“True. But it won’t be true for much longer now.”
“Huh?”
“I’m thinking of taking a continuing education class on rocks.”
“Really?” Uh-oh! There he goes again, doing something to make him more appealing. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, Andie. Think fast! Think of a new brick for that wall you’ve been building between the two of you.
“Aren’t you going to give me any credit?”
I bite my tongue—hard. He’s got a point. My conscience stings and I wince in shame. Oh, Lord, in my cowardly efforts to protect myself, I’ve been unfair and mean.
When I don’t answer, he throws his arms upward, frustration on every feature. “What kind of super-Christian are you? You don’t give a guy half a chance.”
Another stab of guilt. “It’s not that I won’t give you half a chance. It’s more that I’m waiting for you to go even half that mile, never mind the extra one. And now you want me to believe you’re ready to do the homework you should have done before you started the job.”
Arms crossed, he now takes a step back and studies me. I don’t like it.
He doesn’t seem to care.
The silence starts to get to me. My back itches right smack in the middle of my spine. Where I can’t reach it.
“You’re stubborn enough for ten ornery mules,” he says after a long while of pitched eye-to-eye combat.
My hackles rise. “I am not.” Did I just say that? Oh, am I ever in trouble. But right now, in front of Max, isn’t the time to deal with this little personal issue. It’s time to take a stab at an answer—a better one, this time. “I’m a perfectly agreeable woman.”
Great! I just dug me a bigger hole. I don’t know anyone else whose mouth flaps before their brain engages as much as mine does.
“And I’m one of those flying pigs you’re waiting for.”
“If you want to call yourself a pig, who am I to stop you?” “Miss Mona was right, but I don’t think she knew even the half of it.”
I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean? What was Miss Mona right about?”
“You.”
“What about me?”
“She said you’d be a handful, but that you’re smart and know your business. I’ll give you the brains and the book smarts, never mind the handful bit. But what you really are is more trouble than you’re worth.”
Ouch! “What do you mean?”
“That a guy can crack his head on a brick wall only so many times before he decides it’s just not worth it. I really want to make this job work, but I can only do so much. The other half is up to you.”
My jaw nearly clips the dingy floor. He thinks he’s been trying to work with me?
You’d never know from where I stand.
Right?
Or have I been so busy shielding myself that I’ve missed his attempts? Could it be my fault?
I shake my head. “It’s way too late in the night to do this. I’m going to try and sleep. I suggest you do too. Maybe you’ll find enlightenment while you grab your z’s. You might figure out why this cohosting gig isn’t working.”
I’m sure I can wait for further enlightenment—know what I mean?
Max looks like he’s about to argue some more, but then he shrugs and walks back to S.T.U.D.-world. I follow. And then I groan.
While we were ring-around-the-kiosking, Hannah and Allison must have gone to the bathroom or something, because they’re no longer on the couch they’d been sharing. Now each has taken up residence in one of the two armchairs that—you got it—Max and I had used.
The only piece of furniture left vacant in S.T.U.D.-world is that lousy couch. And unless one of us is ready to lie down on the hard concrete floor or wants to wander down to the other cluster of furniture at the far end of the terminal, we’re going to have to share.
Yep. You got it. The grounded pig and the dug-in mule and the teensy-weensy little ol’ couch. Oh my!
Not a pretty picture.
But I’m too tired. So I drop onto one corner and Max takes the other.
To my surprise, I actually sleep.
I hear clapping.
Then, “People!”
With less than no oomph, I pry open a totally reluctant eye. “Huh—”
Then I yelp. And bolt upright.
If you’re as smart as I think you are, you’ve already figured it out. You see, there I was curled up on Max’s broad, warm, supportive shoulder, right in the middle of the airport, for the whole world to see. Of course, I had to bolt.
How am I ever gonna live this one down?
But then it gets worse. When I force my sleep-fogged eyes to focus, I see Miss Mona, who clearly has been staring at us for some time, the most indulgent smile on her face. Betchya Aunt Weeby knows all about that cozy dozing on the Burmese couch by now.
Like I said, I’m never gonna live this one down.
“People!” The man’s voice is more strident this time. “You want leave, no?”
“Huh?”
Max stands. “I think he’s trying to tell us they’ve found seats for us.” He turns to the khaki-uniformed man. “The flight’s ready?”
“Flight! Yes.” He nods like a bobblehead dog on the back of a land-yacht Cadillac. “You fly to America. Now.”
In less than no time, we board and buckle. This time, I make sure I’m next to Miss Mona, even though that poses a peril all its own. We listen to the Burmese version of the airline scare tactics—the life-jacket stuff, the exit slides, mass destruction and mayhem, etc., etc., etc.
Finally, after heavy-duty praying, and by the grace of our merciful God, the plane takes off without any more hitches.
I pray even harder than before, this time all praise and worship for his protection. Plus gratitude, since we’re all in one piece.
I sleep.
By the time we land at JFK, I know what I have to do next. I see the rest of our group on to their flight home to Kentucky, book a later one for me, and then hail a cab outside the terminal. A short time later, the NASCAR escapee in a turban screeches
to a halt just outside my former place of employment. I pay him the king’s ransom he demands. Thank goodness I always kept my purse with me in Mogok. Can you imagine what I would have had to deal with if I’d left all my ID and credit cards in that hotel?
Ugh. And we have to trust that hotel to send us the stuff we left behind? Not holding my breath here.
I step inside the jewelry store where I worked so hard on my ulcers, and before I can say a word, Roger rushes me.
“I knew it! You’ve come to your senses! I just knew you would. Come on. Let me show you my latest buy—”
“Hang on!” I return his hug, and then extricate myself limb by limb. “I’m not here to work. Well, I’m here on work, but I’m not back to work for you.”
His smile wilts only at the edges. “You don’t mean that, Andrea. You know you don’t. I knew life in a backwater wasn’t for you. Not after all the years you enjoyed the real thing here in the city.”
“In your dreams. Do you realize I haven’t taken a single antacid since I left?” I marvel at that truth. “And I haven’t had even the slightest twinge of pain. It turns out I’m really not cut out for the kind of stress you thrive on.”
“I’ll triple your salary.”
“Roger! You have to stop that. I told you I won’t change my mind. It has nothing to do with money. It has to do with getting a life—mine! And it’s really not here in New York.” All the starch seems to wash right out of him. “If you insist, but I’m telling you now. I’m not giving up.”
I let that slide. “I didn’t just come for a visit, you know. I came because I have a ton of questions for you.”
“Questions? What about?”
“Mr. Pak. He’s dead, you know.”
Surprise makes him step back, his mouth doing a reasonable facsimile of a goldfish.
“And the minor matter of a parrot.”
He shakes his head. “A what?”
“You heard me. A bird.”
“That’s . . . different.”
“Oh, and maybe some rubies too.”
That’s when he plops his butt on his desktop.
I join him inches away, prepared to wait.
I want info, and Roger’s been known to be a fount thereof. At times. And on his terms.
His office clock tick-tick-ticks away.
1300
Finally he pulls himself together. “You’ve lost your mind,” he says in a stunned voice.
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, if you want me to . . .” He waves. “Oh, I don’t know. Help you? Beats me what you think I can do, but at any rate, I need to know what you’re up to before I can begin to think up some answers.”
“What? You can’t read my mind?” I give him a sheepish smile. “I guess I do have to bring you up to speed. Maybe then you can tell me if you still think I’ve lost my mind.”
In very broad strokes, I paint a word picture of my last couple of weeks. Aside from a bunch of head shakes, some groans, and a few “I don’t believe thises,” he keeps his mouth shut and lets me spew. It feels good to go over all the insanity that’s struck me since I left New York. Even though the telling makes nothing any clearer than it was before.
At the end, he shakes his head. “Why would you think I’d have answers for you? I’ve been here, where you should have been all this time, I might add, while you’ve been . . . oh, practically everywhere.”
“I just thought since you’ve known Mr. Pak for such a long time that you might know something, maybe have names of people he knows—knew—or maybe he said something sometime during those years . . . anything.” The frustration gets to me and I slap my hands flat on the desktop, then push myself upright. “Oh, I guess I don’t know. This is totally insane.”
“I agree.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”
He gives me an exasperated look. “What exactly is it you want me to say, Andie? That Mr. Pak stopped here on his way there, told me he was the victim of a massive international plot, that he was carrying stolen goods—no, crown jewels! That’s better. That he has some never-heard-of country’s crown jewels or its soon-to-be crown jewels, and that a swarm of killers is after him. Is that what you want?”
I give him a crooked grin. “That’s exactly what I want, but it does sound pretty far-fetched when you glue it all together like that.”
“Of course it sounds far-fetched. I don’t know why he went down to see you. Unless he had some stones he wanted to sell you for the network. Maybe some thief found out what he does for a living, followed him, and then stole the gems.”
“That’s as good a theory as any. But who would have done it?”
“That’s the best I can do. I have no idea who would want to kill him. And I don’t know any more than what you’ve told me.”
My shoulders slump. “You can’t blame me for trying.”
“I don’t blame you for anything—other than quitting and leaving me in the lurch.”
“Oh, give me a break, Rog. Just think of my departure as my donation toward Tiffany’s little splurges. And don’t talk about exorbitant raises you can’t afford. Look at it this way. Now that I’m gone, you don’t have to pay me, so the store’s profits go farther.”
He runs a hand through his steel-colored hair. “Don’t even mention Tiff. I’ve been working so many hours, I’m in the doghouse.”
“Uh-oh. I bet I’m in trouble with her too.”
His smile was smug. “She knows who left me to work all those extra hours.”
“You know what, Rog?” I cross my arms and arch my right brow. “Your pathetic efforts to guilt-trip me back to work for you aren’t going to work. And . . . Tiff’s your wife—your pro-blem-oh!”
He mirrors my pose. “And the dead ruby vendor’s yours.”
My spirits deflate. I start to pace. “I don’t know why I thought you’d have answers for me. My gut tells me Mr. Pak was murdered for the—”
I catch myself. I haven’t mentioned the parcel stolen from the mine. There’s no point bringing it up.
A shrug, and I go on. “I’m sure he was killed for his rubies. But if that’s the case, the killer has to be someone who knew he’d have stones with him.”
“How would anyone know that? Unless he’d called ahead to make an appointment, like he used to do with us. And how are we supposed to know if he made any appointments?
There are millions of jewelers in the U.S. You don’t expect me to know them all, do you?”
“Did he ever come to the U.S. just for fun?”
His turn for one of those helpless shrugs.
“Exactly. I’m not ready to start pointing fingers, but we both agree the killer has to be someone who buys stones from him. And I don’t buy the random jeweler theory.”
That gets to him. He sits way up, his back ramrod straight, his shoulders square. “I hope you’re not hinting what I’m afraid you are. Because if you are, then you’re dead wrong. I didn’t do a thing to that man.”
“You think I’m accusing you of killing Mr. Pak?”
“I know how your mind works—if it stinks of rotten fish in Denmark, then there just might be rotten fish in Denmark. Or in this case, in Manhattan.”
“Give me a break, Roger Hammond. What you smell is New York fumes. Remember? Trash sits out on the sidewalk for days before the sanitation guys come get it.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Bingo! And what you think I meant isn’t what I meant. I didn’t come here to accuse you. I came to talk because you know more people in the gem world than Leno knows in Hollywood. Who else would I go to for help figuring out this mess?”
“All right, all right.” He rubs his forehead, holds his splayed-out hands in a gesture of pure helpless ignorance, then squeezes his eyes shut, wrinkles his nose, and gives his head a couple of small shakes. “You’ve got to admit, a guy’s going to feel the bull’s-eye on his forehead if someone comes in out of the blue and starts talking murder conspir
acies.”
“I’m sorry. And you’re right. I must have come off as some bad TV gumshoe. But you know? When some creep turns you into target practice while you’re crashing and bumping down rutted dirt roads, you tend to look at your world through suspicion-colored glasses.”
“Can’t say I blame you.” He’s quiet for a minute . . . two. I prop my behind against his desk again.
Roger tents his hands, then, “His rubies, huh?”
“Why else? I don’t think anyone’s that sick of his mouthy parrot. At least, not to the point of rubbing out the guy— instead of the bird, that is.”
His laugh sputters out. “Rubbing out the guy?” Another laugh. “Andie! What have you been doing down in your backwater? Watching prehistoric B movies? That’s awful.”
“So’s walking into your employer’s vault and finding a dead guy—a dead guy you’ve known for a couple of years and liked very much.”
His humor vanishes. “I can’t imagine how that must have felt. But look at it from my point of view. I’d heard nothing about Pak’s death until you walked in and stunned me with the news.”
“I’m surprised. I told the cops I’d met Mr. Pak through you.”
“Well, they didn’t come here to ask questions. You did.” I wink. “And how did I do?”
“Weird. But that’s normal—for you.”
I throw a play punch at his shoulder. “That’s support for ya.” A glance at my watch tells me my flight home might just leave without me. “So you can’t think of anything that could help.”
“Nothing, Andie. Nothing comes to me. Sorry. Wish I could help. This can’t be a good time for you.”
“You’re right about that.” I jump off the desk. “And you can imagine what it’s done to Aunt Weeby.”
“Her?” He laughs. “She must be in her element, playing sleuth.”
“Bite your tongue! Miss Mona left Aunt Weeby in charge of her brand-new, very successful TV shopping channel.”
“Are you kidding! For all that Miss Mona of yours knows, your aunt’s already turned it into . . . oh, I don’t know. Maybe a brokerage for . . . I’ve got it! Pygmy angora goats with blue fur. Is that insane enough for her?”
Aunt Weeby and a herd of fluffy blue goats. “That’s scarier than a Stephen King book.”
