by Ginny Aiken
Great. She’s not dumb enough to let me get between her and freedom. I’ll have to keep her talking until I think of something else. “You have a buyer?”
“Roger does. But he chickened out, Roger did. Suddenly he doesn’t want to have anything to do with stolen stuff.”
“And Mr. Pak was bringing the stones for Roger to fence them?”
“Not hardly. There was a bunch of other people after him. Everyone wants those rubies. But he had some crazy idea that you could take them back to Myanmar. He didn’t want the government to say he’d stolen them, and then ban him from the country. His business would shrivel up if they did that.” “Me? Why me?”
Tiffany shrugs. “I guess he figured no one would ever think you’re smart enough to pull off something like this.”
And you’re a rocket scientist, right?
“How did Mr. Pak wind up with the rubies?”
“I’m not sure, but I think they went from the guy who took them, to another guy—a couple more, really—then they went to a cutter in Thailand. Somehow, Mr. Pak got hold of them, and Roger’s wanted them since Mr. Pak first told him about the stones.”
The longer I keep her babbling about how smart she is, the better my chances of Julie getting back here.
“So I was supposed to return them. Because I’m too dumb to steal them. That makes a whole lot of sense.”
Tiffany shrugs. “I never said Mr. Pak was smart. He should have sold the rubies. They’re worth a lot of money.”
“So’s Roger. Why do you want more?”
Her eyes bug out. “Are you serious? There’s lots and lots more stuff I want.”
“So it’s all about what you want.”
“Isn’t that what life’s all about?”
“No. Not really. Life’s about meaning and service and God’s plan.” Where’s my copy of The Purpose-Driven Life when I need it?
“You can do the God thing. I’ll stick to what I can touch and see. And right now, I’m not touching or seeing those rubies. Find them!”
I wave. “See all those racks? They’re full of gemstones. Why don’t you take a bunch? They’ll sell for plenty.”
That was the wrong thing to say. She jabs the gun my way. “Get going, Andie. You know what’s in the parcels. You know they won’t bring as much as the rubies. Find them. I already have that buyer.”
I act helpless—not a stretch right now. “Where do you want me to look?”
She points to a spot on a shelf right by where Mr. Pak died. “There. And don’t waste any more time.”
Things can’t get any worse, right?
Wrong.
The bathroom door opens. Clump-clump, clump-clump.
“Back,” Tiffany says, checking the door. It hasn’t clicked, but to an uninformed onlooker, like Aunt Weeby, it would looked closed.
The cast clumps closer. “You did say she came to put away the pretties she had on the show, right, Max?” Aunt Weeby yells.
Tiffany’s eyes grow wider. Her forehead begins to dew. She looks surprisingly like a caged rat. I fight the hope that springs to life in my heart. That’s my injured, elderly great-aunt out there.
“That’s what she said,” Max answers.
Tiffany presses her gun against my temple. “Not a sound.” “She’ll see the open vault door.”
Tiffany smiles. It’s not a nice one—if shaky. “This”—she jabs the gun against my head, pinning me against the shelves, her back to the door and Aunt Weeby—“is what they’ll find. They can choose. I shoot you and them. It’s a win-win situation for me.”
I doubt Max is armed, and I know Aunt Weeby isn’t. All I can pray for is the Lord to protect them from this madwoman.
“Sugarplum?” Aunt Weeby calls. “You okay to your stomach? Is it them ulcers acting up?”
When I don’t answer, she goes on, her voice closer with every word. “Are you in here? Max says you been gone forever— what’s this?”
Sure enough, she yanks open the vault door. And that’s enough for Tiffany to move the gun just a fraction away from my temple. I take my chances, and jab out with my elbow. It connects with her middle.
“Oooof!” She doubles over. The gun goes off.
“MAX!” Aunt Weeby bellows as she trips over her cast and lands on the floor.
“Max!” I echo.
Tiffany straightens up.
“Leaving?” I ask. Then I lunge. Maybe I should have listened to Max on some of that football stuff. I’m sure my technique is lacking, since I almost land on my face. It’s not exactly what I’d call a tackle, but I go with what I have. I grab Tiffany’s foot, and being a shoe girl, I give the Stella McCartney a yank. Tiffany crumbles.
The gun skitters from her hand, the momentum carrying it out into the restroom after it bounces off the vault door— thankfully without discharging again.
Aunt Weeby grabs it and squeals with glee. “Put ’em up!” I groan.
Max runs in, followed by Julie, gun at the ready. In the doorway, I see two more figures, but I’m too overwhelmed to identify anyone right off the bat. A moment later, I make out Sally and Miss Mona’s new camerawoman huddled together, their jaws agape, their eyes a-bulging.
The welcome whee-oh, whee-oh, whee-oh of police sirens draws near.
Now that the cavalry has arrived, I can’t find the oomph to move, much less stand up. I lay flat on the ground; I don’t register more than a general buzz of action and sound around me for seconds, minutes. And then strong, gentle hands grasp my shoulders.
“Are you okay?” Max asks.
“I think all the parts are still attached.”
“Want to stand?”
I give him a crooked smile. “How about we try sitting first?”
He holds my hand, and I use his strength to haul myself up to a sitting position. “Who called the cops?”
“Julie did as soon as she got to the day care center. She realized someone had lured her away on purpose.”
“Is Chief—”
“While you were kissing the floor there, he hauled Tiffany away.”
“I wasn’t kissing the floor. I was just too wiped out to move. You try having a killer hold a gun to your head. You might just lose all your macho football jockiness too.”
He backs up, hands in a defensive position. “Hey! I’m on your side.”
“All right, all right, all right,” I mutter as I stand up. “Where’s Aunt Weeby?”
“With Agent Stewart, giving him her side of the story.”
My eyes goggle. “Poor guy! He doesn’t know what he’s in for.”
“He can handle it, I’m sure. But you’re in for a date with him too.”
“Don’t remind me.” My knees don’t remember how to do their thing, and it’s all I can do to stay upright. “Do I really have to go through a grilling right now?”
“Maybe we can talk them into letting you get checked out at the hospital first—”
“Hold it right there, Max Matthews! I’m not going back. I want to go home. Let me at Agent Stewart.”
I wobble out of the vault, nod hello to a couple of Chief Clark’s officers, one of whom has the gun in a ziplock bag, and then I stumble toward the door. There, in Julie’s usual seat, is my aunt, retelling the tale in her own unique—wacky— way.
“Miss Adams,” the shadow . . . er . . . Agent Stewart says. “I’m done with your aunt. I have a few questions for you—”
“Could you give me a couple of hours? I’m shaky and I’d like a shower and a nap. There’s nothing like a gun at your head for making you . . . well, sweat.”
Aunt Weeby groans. “Andrea! A woman never sweats, sugarplum. We only—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know all about dewing, and all that. But I can tell you, I was sweating. If it’s all right, I’d rather go home. I can promise you’ll get better answers from me after I quit shaking.”
We agree, I head home, thanks to Max and his SUV, and I collapse on my bed. In the safety of my room I recognize a few things. Tiffany is
rotten. My gut had told me that from the start. The most I can say for her is that I hope and pray someone can lead her to Christ.
I also realize that all of Roger’s wheeling and dealing skates the edge of illegal. Although I hadn’t participated in any of it, I’d excused it for a long time as part of “doing business” in New York’s cutthroat diamond district.
“Lord?” I whisper. “I’m sorry. I guess when I told you I wanted your will for real, it really means looking at things your way and not the way everyone else does. I have to ask your forgiveness for my . . . oh, I guess it was willing blindness, and even some fudging. It’s hard to look at the world your way, but I’d rather be with you than without you.”
From down the hall, I catch the clump-clump of Aunt Weeby’s cast. “Oh, and thanks for watching out for Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona. Me too, but they didn’t have anything to do with this mess, and still they got caught up in it. Thanks, okay?”
And then I sleep.
An hour later, Agent Stewart shows up and asks his millions of questions. By the time he’s done, I need another nap. But I don’t get the chance to take it. A short time after he leaves, I have more visitors.
To my surprise, the secret service guy from Myanmar, the uniformed and medaled one from the airport, an official from the Thai embassy, and tiny, sweet Mrs. Pak stop by. She’d wanted to meet me, so the three officials had brought her to Aunt Weeby’s house earlier in the day. Aunt Weeby, dying to get out, had them drive to the studio. And that’s how she wound up in the vault.
When they leave, Aunt Weeby takes off to her date with the church’s choir director. Poor man. He doesn’t know what’s about to hit his well-planned program for this next Thanksgiving.
About a half hour later, Max walks in.
“Hi,” I say as I pull the tray full of bird-poop-covered newspaper out of the bottom of Rio’s cage. Oh! Didn’t I mention the glamour in parrot ownership? Sure. It has to do with cracked bird seed and dropping-littered cage bottoms that must be cleaned day after day. Yesterday was Aunt Weeby’s turn; today is mine.
“I hear you’re an international superstar,” Max says, a wicked grin on his face. You can be sure he’s not about to offer to help.
“I don’t think so.”
“Last I heard, you had dignitaries from two Southeast Asian countries here to see you.”
I shrug, head for the utility room, and start to scrub the thick, heavy-textured plastic tray. “They brought Mrs. Pak. She wanted to meet me. At least I was able to tell her how sorry I am about her husband’s death.”
“Did they say why he brought the stones to you?”
“The cutter in Thailand who wound up with the rubies was killed for the stones, but before he died, he’d told Mr. Pak about them. Mr. Pak wanted them returned to the government of Myanmar, but he was afraid. He thought his connections to the cutter might tie him to the thieves. He did visit the mines at least four or five times a year, and he thought that would instantly make the government doubt his story.”
“So then, why you?”
I roll my eyes. “According to Tiffany, because I’m too stupid to plan and get away with a heist like this.”
He laughs.
I smack the tray against the side of the sink. “Hey! Some sympathy would be welcome, buddy. I’ve been traumatized here.”
His laughs slow down to chuckles. “What about Mrs. Pak? Did she have anything interesting to say?”
“That Roger had lusted after those rubies ever since Mr. Pak mentioned the theft. He wanted the stones because they’re incredible. Tiffany heard about them, and she wanted the millions they’d bring. Roger didn’t care about the legalities, but he didn’t hurt Mr. Pak either. Tiffany, on the other hand, threatened Mr. Pak. She even threatened his family, but he refused to hand over the stones. He felt they should go back to the government, then be sold on the open market to the highest bidder.”
Max doesn’t say anything for a while, but instead stares at me. I get itchy and squirmy under his scrutiny. “What? Do I have spinach on my teeth?”
“No. I’m just thinking what a compliment Mr. Pak paid you. He trusted you, your integrity. He knew you’d do the right thing.”
“But I didn’t. I never even found the stones.” I turn to yank a wide ribbon of paper towels from the wall-hung roll, and the tray teeters on the edge of the sink. “Ooops!”
Max dives after the drippy tray. “Look out!”
The tray hits the floor. A thin sliver of plastic slides out the left side. On the sliver of plastic is a wide swathe of duct tape.
I stare.
Max sucks in a breath.
My knees begin to shake, and I wind up on my butt right by the tray.
Mr. Magnificent joins me, oblivious to the puddle of water in which he sits.
“Do you think—”
“Could that be—”
Our gazes meet. We both reach out, but then he draws back. “Go ahead,” he says. “You’ve earned it.”
With shaking fingers, I ease a corner of sticky silver adhesive from the white plastic and tamp down my excitement when I feel the lumps below the tape.
Millimeter by millimeter, I work the glue away, and then . . .
“Wow . . .” Admiration fills Max’s voice.
The beauty of the stones steals mine.
We’ve found the rubies.
And the gems are as stunning as anything God has placed on the face of his earth.
We stare, silent. Then, I don’t know how much later, Max reaches out and laces his fingers through mine. I curl mine around his.
Our gazes meet again.
And hold.
After the police, FBI, Interpol, Myanma dignitaries, and Mrs. Pak have again left the house, Max and I collapse on the couch.
“Bird poop, huh?” my most eloquent cohost asks.
“You gotta admit, not many are going to go looking there for a fabulous fortune.”
“Aunt Weeby thought of it. She had Rio X-rayed.”
“You’re right. She did.” I wink. “See? Brainy women run in my family.”
He laughs.
So do I. Then I sigh. “Still can’t figure out why, of all the people Mr. Pak knew in the U.S.—the whole world, actually—he chose me.”
Max’s admiring gaze makes me warm all over. Oh my!
“I started to tell you earlier,” he says. “You didn’t want those stones for yourself. You never really went looking for them. You cared more about Mr. Pak and who’d killed him than anything else.”
I shrug. “Mrs. Pak said he believed I’d return the stones once I figured out where he’d hid them. What else was I going to do? You know? I couldn’t keep them. I sure couldn’t sell them. They’re not mine.”
He smiles.
I’m so glad I’m sitting. This guy’s more lethal than Tiffany’s gun.
“That’s it, Andie. That’s what I mean. Tiffany saw the stones for what they could do for her. Roger saw the stones as another trophy. You see the stones as someone else’s property.”
I give his answer some thought. “Actually, Max, the stones, and everything else, are God’s. He only puts things here on Earth for us to use and give him the glory. We all come to an accounting before him sooner or later. When that day comes, I want to be on his good side, since he’s done so much for me.”
My cohost again says nothing, studies me some more. Then, in a quiet, serious voice, he says, “I think there’s more I’m going to learn from you than just about gems. You up for it, Teach?”
Oh boy. What do I say?
I came home for a more peaceful life. Who’d a thunk I’d find so much excitement doing TV in plain old Louisville? Who’d a thunk I’d be forced to share the screen with a California gem-dunce surfer boy?
And live to . . . what? Tell about it? Do another show? Get along with him?
What? What’s next, Lord?
I look at Max, take a deep breath, and say, “Let me get my gem-jar trays.”
Ginny Aiken,
a former newspaper reporter, lives in Pennsylvania with her engineer husband and their three younger sons—the oldest is married and has flown the coop. Born in Havana, Cuba, and raised in Valencia and Caracas, Venezuela, Ginny discovered books at an early age. She wrote her first novel at age fifteen while she trained with the Ballets de Caracas, later to be known as the Venezuelan National Ballet. She burned that tome when she turned a “mature” sixteen. An eclectic list of jobs—including stints as reporter, paralegal, choreographer, language teacher, retail salesperson, wife, mother of four boys, and herder of their numerous and assorted friends, including the 135 members of first the Crossmen and then the Bluecoats Drum and Bugle Corps— brought her back to books in search of her sanity. She is now the author of twenty-six published works, but she hasn’t caught up with that elusive sanity yet.
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Ginny Aiken
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