by Linda Lovely
Danny tore a sheet from his notebook and handed it to me. “Here’s the list of jewelers, names, and phone numbers.”
“How about loaning us the earring?” Amber asked. “I understand it’s evidence but we may need it.”
Danny frowned. “Okay. But, Amber, you need to sign for it. Our chain of evidence already has plenty of room for attack. Any defense attorney can point out we only have Brie’s word as to when and where the earring was found. Oh, and I want to take a picture first, just in case anything happens.”
Did Danny’s “in case anything happens” refer to the earring—or to Amber and me?
The deputy retrieved the earring, laid it alongside a ruler on his desk, and snapped close up shots from several angles. Then he dropped the earring in a little baggie and handed it to Amber.
She turned to me. “First let’s see if we can charm some jewelers into meeting with us on a Sunday.”
“I’ve met two of them while tagging along with Moll,” I volunteered. “Mollye fires pottery pendants and the jewelers make gold pieces—I think they’re called bails—to attach the pendants to chains.”
“Great. Why don’t you call the ones you’ve met? I don’t think you should tell them you’re trying to locate the owner of a lost earring. That could backfire. They could hang up and immediately give our top arson suspect a heads-up that we’re on her trail.”
I agreed with Amber’s analysis. “Here’s an option. What if I tell them I have a friend who’s in a real bind to quickly arrange a commission for custom jewelry? I can pile it on thick, say you have to leave town in the morning.”
“Oooh, I like it.” Amber patted her jacket’s zipped pocket where she’d stowed the gavel earring.
I was pleasantly surprised when the first jeweler immediately recognized my name. I’d never bought a thing when I’d visited with Mollye, just gawked at the price tags on the out-of-my-price range items locked inside the glass showroom counters. But the owner obviously had that valuable retail talent, the ability to remember people. She invited me to bring my friend by.
“I live over the shop. Not a problem to open up for you.”
“Hi, Brie,” she greeted me. “Glad to see you. Since you’re not with Mollye, maybe I can get a word in edgewise and show you some jewelry. Oh, my, you’re not wearing any earrings and I see your ears are pierced. With your elegant neck and short, curly hair, drop earrings would look really stunning.”
Okay, the woman had a talent for flattering schmooze as well as name recall.
I turned toward Amber. “Actually my friend here is your best prospect for making a sale. I love your work but I’m low on cash. Amber, why don’t you tell her what you’re looking for?”
“I want a really special gift for my mother and aunt. They’re twins and it’s their sixtieth birthday. A biggie. They both love custom gold jewelry. I’d like to give them matching earrings, designed exclusively for them. They’re both artists. So I’m thinking something like artist palettes dangling from gold chains. Could you do something that detailed?”
The jeweler cocked her head. “Not anymore, I’m afraid.” She stared at her hands and rubbed her slightly curled fingers. “Arthritis. I fight it, but it’s hard to do really intricate jobs. I’d hoped you were looking for something more flowing, with less detail.”
Amber shook her head. “Sorry, I really am set on charm-type earrings. Do you have any recommendations?”
The woman smiled. “Yes, there’s a goldsmith in Clemson who does lots of custom work. Very detailed.”
We thanked her. Her recommendation coincided with the third name and number on Mollye’s list. I phoned the goldsmith, who agreed to meet us at his store in fifteen minutes.
“In the middle of my spiel, I realized it sucked,” Amber admitted as we turned into Clemson’s Main Street. “I wanted to prompt her to talk about other charm earrings she’d created. But even if she’d made the gavel earrings, there was no guarantee she’d mention them.”
I nodded. “Maybe a more straight-forward approach? Tell the jeweler you were out to dinner recently and saw a woman with lovely gold earrings, an intricately carved gavel dangling from the end of a delicate chain. Might he have created them? You’re looking for something similar.”
“Worth a try,” Amber answered. “No mention of an earring being lost. But we get right to the crux of the matter—did he make the earrings?”
The strategy worked. We’d been standing at the counter less than five minutes when the jeweler responded to Amber’s opening salvo by bragging he’d made the earrings for a very important customer, Judge Lawrence Toomey, who’d recently been nominated to the Supreme Court. I guess there’s no confidentiality agreement with jewelers.
We were primed to ask follow-up questions. No need. The fellow wasn’t done talking.
“I actually made three pairs of gavel earrings and three pairs of gavel cufflinks,” he boasted. “The judge wanted to present gifts to the women and men in his family. Said they all deserved special gifts for their unwavering support. What a nice man!”
Yeah, he’s a real peach.
Amber made a show of being a real buyer, asking questions about carats, costs, and turnaround time for custom work. To grease our escape, she promised to phone from the road with her decision.
Learning how many earrings Toomey commissioned proved relatively easy. Now came the hard part. Finding out who received those gifts and which of the recipients now had one neckid ear.
FORTY-NINE
Amber and I had just reached the car when my phone vibrated.
“You called me?” a gruff male voice asked. “This is Willard Shuman.”
Huh? It took a sec for my brain to un-fart and his name to register. “Uh, yes, yes I did. I need a bid for hauling away an outbuilding that burned to the ground.”
I didn’t describe the rubble as a one-time cottage since I worried “cottage” implied the job was bigger than it was.
“Am I gonna be dealin’ with an insurance company?”
“Uh, no. Sorry.”
“Nothin’ to be sorry ’bout if you got the dough. I charge less when I don’t have to fight a paper blizzard. Where’s this outbuilding?”
I gave him the address.
“Can ya meet me there now? I’m close, maybe ten minutes. Know it’s a Sunday, but I’m tied up all day tomorrow.”
“Just a sec.” I turned to Amber. “Do you mind stopping by Summer Place for a few minutes? A salvage guy would like to meet now to look at the cottage rubble.”
“Sure,” Amber answered. “If you promise we can eat as soon as you finish. My stomach’s sending rumbling reminders that we missed lunch in all the excitement.”
“Deal. Why don’t you call Ursula and invite her and my parents to join us? Figure we’ve held them at bay as long as we can. Surprised Dad hasn’t sent out a search party. We can rendezvous at Summer Place. There are beers and a bottle of wine in the fridge. Everyone can have a drink and relax while the demolition guy and I kick charred boards around.”
Amber laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I get to do all the explaining while you’re conveniently absent. Yeah, I’ll give Ursula a call.”
Amber had plenty of time to chat on the phone during our ride from downtown Clemson to Summer Place. It was usually a five-minute drive, but a car accident slowed Highway 123 traffic to a crawl.
“Ursula will meet us at Summer Place,” Amber reported. “In spite of your parent’s protests, she found a motel room for the night. With the weekend basketball crowd clearing out, rooms are opening up. Ursula promised to call your folks and share the dinner invite.”
Good. A welcome postponement of the interrogation I expected as soon as Mom or Dad spoke to me.
For the moment all I had to worry about was Mr. Demolition Man. Fingers crossed he’d take pity on me and name a price somewhat
south of my debt limit.
Willard beat us. He’d parked on the street and stood curbside, bent over a metal storage box in the bed of his truck. I gave Amber a key to the sunporch’s new lock. “Go on in, and help yourself to beer or wine. This shouldn’t take long.”
The demo specialist mumbled as he fished around in his storage box. I walked up behind him. When he didn’t turn at my approach I cleared my throat. Finally, I tapped his shoulder.
“Hi,” I said when he looked up. “I’m Brie Hooker. Thanks for coming.”
The leathery-faced man grunted. He definitely spent lots of time outdoors. “Hey. Didn’t hear ya.” He pointed at a hearing aid. “Blew up a lot of stuff in the Army. Now a herd of elephants could trample me before I heard ’em. I’m huntin’ spare batteries. My laser tape measure’s gone dead. Ah ha! There they are.”
I pulled my jacket tighter and glanced at the sky as Willard plunked new batteries in his high-tech measuring gizmo. Though the official time of sunset was after six o’clock, leaden clouds, thick and brooding had ushered dusk in ahead of schedule.
Willard wasn’t exactly a speed demon, and he wasn’t a talker either. He took a variety of measurements to calculate the cubic volume of debris. He also picked up what might have been the cottage’s fireplace poker to probe the piles of burnt timbers.
“Not much metal to salvage,” he mused. “Saw a toilet seat. You gonna want those fireplace stones hauled off or piled somewhere? Might could use them to edge a garden. They’re heavy to cart away.”
I shrugged. “If it’s cheaper to pile the chimney stones, I’ll find a use for them.”
Willard spit in the grass. Then he pulled a pencil from behind his ear, jotted down some notes to himself, and gave me a price.
I’m not a spitter, but his number was high enough to make me want to hock one up. I doubted I could do better and Willard promised to start bright and early Tuesday morning.
“Okay. Do you need me to sign something?”
“Nah. I’ve only been nicked once. I drive by here now and again. I see all the work you’ve been putting in. You ain’t the kind to welsh on me.”
I walked him to his truck and we shook hands. Then I headed for Summer Place’s sunporch. I was surprised no more cars had pulled into my drive. Hated to admit it, but I was kind of hoping Amber would start the explanations without me. I’d have to find something besides alcohol to tide Amber over until our dinner companions arrived. Maybe hummus and corn chips.
When I opened the sunporch door, I was surprised Amber wasn’t sitting on the glider. It was the only comfortable place to kick back. I smiled. The poor girl was starving. Maybe she was in the kitchen scavenging for food.
“Amber, where are you? Don’t tell me you’ve fainted from hunger?”
The detective didn’t answer. Huh? Had she got tired of waiting and decided to go for a stroll in the neighborhood?
Just in case she hadn’t heard me or had her mouth so stuffed she couldn’t answer, I decided to check the kitchen.
“Amber?” I called.
My head exploded in pain. What?
FIFTY
I tried to spit. Couldn’t. My tongue wouldn’t move, held fast.
Willard spit. I never spit. Why do I want to now? What a stupid dream.
Ouch! Something pinched me. Did I need to cut Cashew’s toenails again? I turned my head, sandpaper raked my cheek.
My eyes flew open. Cursed Colby! Not a dream.
“About time you came around,” Amber whispered. “Wondered how long I’d have to keep pinching you. Left your gag in so you wouldn’t scream and bring our new friend running. She should have signed up for that Girl Scouts’ knot-tying course. Took me all of a minute to undo the ropes once she left.”
I frantically blinked, looked down at my gag, then up at Amber repeatedly. Why wasn’t she getting my nonverbal signal? Shut up and yank the blasted gag out of my mouth! It was wicking every last molecule of saliva from my mouth.
“Don’t make a sound,” Amber commanded. “Gotta rip off the duct tape holding the gag. It’s gonna hurt.”
To distract myself from the anticipated pain, I dug my nails into my palms. Brilliant. Now two areas of my body were aflame. But the duct tape rip won hands down for agony. Yikes! How many layers of my lips and cheeks were flayed? Fleeting thought: not waxing any body part, ever.
Amber extracted the red-checked tea towel that had been crammed between my aching jaws. Then she made a victory sign in front of my nose. “How many fingers?” she asked.
“Two.” My mouth—I think there was still cotton in it—was so dry I could barely speak. I swallowed and glared at Amber. “If you don’t tell me what the heck is happening, you’re gonna see one of my fingers.”
Amber offered a fleeting smile. “The woman hid behind the kitchen door, clubbed me soon as I walked in. Tied me, gagged me, and dragged me here. My gun and cell phone are gone. She took your cell, too. I patted you down. Sorry. Gotta give the little lady an A-plus for strength and determination. Neither of us are light weights.”
Though scared silly, frustration was making me cranky. “Who is SHE?” My voice sounded like a strangled frog. “Or do I need to start pinching your arm black and blue?”
I rubbed the spot Amber must have pinched repeatedly. No doubt I’d be nicely bruised tomorrow. Just hoped I’d see a tomorrow.
Amber shook her head as she worked to untie my hands. “Can’t say. The woman’s dressed like a ninja who prefers very loose clothes, all black. She’s wearing some sort of do-it-yourself hood with holes punched out for her eyes—like a little kid’s ghost get-up.”
“Think. Surely you can tell which Tommey it is.”
“Sorry, no. Ruth’s the only one I’ve seen. The oversized costume makes it hard to even tell the woman’s build. Based on your descriptions, Ruth, Esther, and Jeannie are about the same height.”
My head felt as if gremlins trapped inside my skull were tunneling a passage to freedom. I blinked, and tried to focus. I needed to get my bearings. Okay. Even in the twilight, I knew my exact location. A shaft of light from one of the newly created skylights—plastic nailed to seal a hole in the roof—spotlighted the ornate cap on the newel post at the base of Summer Place’s grand staircase. The distant post served as an interior North Star. I squeezed my eyes shut and pictured Summer Place’s layout. She’d dragged us beyond the dining room. The opening to the refurbished kitchen sat perhaps thirty feet to our left.
“Okay, let’s leave the question of ‘who’ for the moment. Any idea what she’s planning?” I asked.
“She hasn’t spoken a word. But I have a pretty good idea why we’re still breathing. Right after I unlocked the sunporch, Ursula phoned. I answered and sat on the glider to chat. The kitchen door’s real close. Our captor had to hear every word I said. Ursula said she wasn’t quite ready but she’d come to Summer Place as soon as she could. I said I was starved and I’d get downright surly if she didn’t get here in the next half hour.”
“So our captor knows they’re on their way here—Mom, Dad, Ursula?”
“Your folks aren’t coming. Since they were ready, they told Ursula they’d go to the restaurant and put our name in for a table and she could swing by here and prod us to hurry up. Apparently Harvest Café doesn’t take reservations for its popular Sunday buffet. Have to show up in person to get wait listed for a table.”
Thank heaven. Mom and Dad weren’t walking into an ambush. But Ursula would be.
The rope that bound my hands fell away. “Thanks.” I rubbed my wrists. Having my hands free didn’t slow my pulse. The artery in my neck was doing a shimmy as adrenalin pumped blood faster than a fire hose.
“How long before Ursula gets here? Any guess?”
“A guess is about it. When I came around, you were calling my name. Then I heard you grunt and fall. I pretended I was out when the
woman hauled you back here and tied you up. I wasn’t out very long.”
Amber fiddled with her watch. I saw the digits briefly glow but couldn’t read the time. “I checked my watch the second I hung up with Ursula, exactly fourteen minutes ago. I planned to harass Ursula if she failed to meet my half-hour deadline. We have fifteen minutes at most, a few minutes less if Ursula’s early, a few more if she’s tardy. Let’s hope she’s tardy.”
“We need to get moving.” I staggered to my feet.
“Where to?” Amber asked. “It’s suicide to rush our kidnapper. She has my gun. She’s probably in her favorite hiding spot behind the kitchen door hoping to clobber Ursula. Since there’s only the one way for us to enter the kitchen, she’d see us the moment we came for her.”
“So we make her come to us,” I said. “We set a trap. Lure her deeper inside for our own ambush. If we start making noise, she’ll have to come after us. Can’t let us warn Ursula to stay out and call the cops.”
Amber nodded. “If she didn’t have a gun before, she does now. Why didn’t she kill us both while we were out cold, helpless? That bothers me.”
“That bothers you. I’m pretty thrilled to be alive.”
“Me, too, but why bother to tie us up? I don’t like my answer—once an arsonist, always an arsonist. As soon as Ursula arrives, I bet she plans to burn the place down with all of us inside. If she hopes to make our deaths look accidental, we need to die from smoke inhalation not bullets.”
Amber’s words brought back the horror of the cottage fire and how nearly we didn’t escape. The choking smoke. The scorching heat on my skin.
“Where can we set a trap?” Her question brought me back from the old nightmare to the new one.
“It’s getting really dark,” she continued. “How can we even find a place to hide without breaking our necks? Didn’t you say this place is lousy with rotten and missing floorboards?”
“We need to be careful. Easier to hide if everything’s in shadow. I know where there’s a flashlight. I keep two—one on each floor in case the electricity goes while I’m working. Since some windows are boarded up, it can get pretty murky even in broad daylight.”
