by Meera Lester
Putting down the loupe, Lidia gripped the earring post between a long, bony forefinger and thumb. “Meaning, dear, your diamond is real. With the fakes, you don’t get the carbon, cracks, or tiny pinpoints of mineral that Mother Nature includes in her stones.”
“And that . . . uh . . . girdle part?”
“It’s here,” Lidia said. Using the nail of her little finger, she indicated the area of the stone below the crown that rested in the setting. “It’s just another sign that it’s a real diamond.”
“Is there more to tell about it?” Philippe asked.
Lidia picked up the loupe and stared through it at the earring once again. “Might be fourteen-karat white gold, but I would have to do an acid test to be sure. Based on the clarity and the style of the filigree, I would say this is an old European-cut diamond earring dating to the early part of the last century. There’s a fracture in the filigree, but it’s still quite lovely.” She turned the earring around slowly, methodically, peering at it from every direction. Suddenly, she gasped. “Oh, my goodness, I remember something.”
Abby, who had been leaning against the counter and staring at the earring almost as closely as Lidia, looked at Philippe. He had been leaning forward, too, but now stood erect, his eyes shining.
“What do you remember, Lidia?” Abby asked.
“This isn’t an item we carry, dear, but I’m certain it came in for repair—a broken piece of filigree in the scroll-work around the square cushion. It also had a loose mounting prong.” Lidia put down the loupe.
“And you remember this because . . . ?” Abby asked.
“Because it’s an antique, Oliver showed it to me right away. He said no one does this kind of work anymore.” Lidia picked up the loupe and put it over the side of the mount. “My memory isn’t what it used to be, but I couldn’t forget this one.”
Abby felt her stomach flutter. “Please tell me, Lidia, that you remember the name of the person who brought this earring in.”
“Well, let me think.” Lidia put down the earring. She placed both hands on the edge of the counter, long fingers splayed across the top. Thus steadied, she closed her eyes.
Abby looked at Philippe and put a finger to her lips. If Lidia needed to shut out the visual world to conjure up a clearer memory, Abby figured some silence couldn’t hurt, either. What she didn’t want was to break the spell.
A moment later, Lidia opened her eyes. “It was last September,” she said. “Students from the high school had started coming in with their backpacks. That’s always a problem. You’ve got to keep such a close eye on those young ones. They tend to pilfer, you know.”
“Yes . . . and so, last September, as you were saying?” Abby asked.
“A man came in. I’d wager he might have been in his early forties. Our cleaning lady’s husband is about that age. I remember the man’s clothing seemed too nice for a sweaty hike up to the reservoir. Said he went up there with a friend. But what I remember most about him is that he wore a Yacht-Master II. Who wears a Rolex on a rugged hike into the foothills?” She smiled at Philippe. “Oh, you might see a yachtsman wearing such a piece in the Old Port of Marseille, but not at the reservoir in Las Flores! Of course, that was the day our air-conditioning broke down. It was hot as blazes out, even hotter here in the shop. Every store in town was running its AC. Triple-digit temps that week and—”
“Yes,” Abby interrupted. “I remember that sweltering heat. The county rationed water, and most of my heirloom corn roasted on the stalk.”
Philippe took a turn at guiding Lidia back on topic. “The earring, it was broken, and your customer wanted you to fix it?”
“Yes,” Lidia said. “The man gave my husband the earring to fix.”
“Do you remember anything else?” Abby asked.
“He hadn’t been in here before, but he said that his wife had. The earrings were for her. I gather they had been in his family and had been passed down. The man said he needed something to placate his wife for a recent misdeed.”
Philippe had stepped away to stare beneath the glass at a pair of Edwardian-style gold cuff links in a spiral shape. But at hearing “misdeed,” he looked at Abby with a lifted brow. He seemed to be fully attentive again to what else Lidia might remember.
Abby watched as Lidia, seemingly annoyed that a silver strand of hair had fallen over her shoulder, expertly twisted the strand back where it belonged. “You know, we had to get rid of that AC unit. I guess it must have lasted us three decades.” Chuckling softly, she added, “Not nearly as long as my husband and I have been married.”
“So,” Abby asked, “any chance you recall the man’s name?”
“Oh, no, I don’t think.... No, sorry.” She frowned as though her attempt to remember was not without a great deal of effort. “We might have a repair ticket in our files. We always write the customer’s name on the ticket and match it with the jewelry by the ticket number. I’ll ask my husband if he remembers that man or the earring. In old age, two heads really are better than one.” She chuckled. “He’s six months younger.”
Abby was suddenly aware of the bright twinkle in those aging eyes. That and Lidia’s sweet temperament endeared her to everyone in town.
The storefront door chimed as a young woman pushing a baby stroller entered with two women friends.
“Be right with you,” Lidia called out.
Abby stood, thoughtfully chewing her lower lip. She wanted to ask Lidia a few more questions, but she’d prefer to do it out of earshot of any customers. Then she had an idea. “Any chance that adorable husband of yours is working in the back?”
“Oh, no, dear. Oliver is recovering from hip surgery. He’s grumbling away in the nursing home next to the county hospital.”
The shop door chimed as five teens walked in. Some held containers of super soda with large red straws; others carried cups of frozen yogurt, all bearing the logo of the ice cream shop several storefronts away.
A withering expression crept across Lidia’s face. After handing the earring to Abby, Lidia marched from behind the display case to address the teens. “We don’t allow food or drink in here. You’re welcome to take your treats outside and come back in when you’ve finished. Now, go on with you.” Lidia pointed an authoritative finger toward the door.
After the last teenager was outside, Lidia whispered, “I tell them repeatedly. Still, they come with the drinks. There’s a sign just next to the door there. I wish I could change the wording to read ‘Teens, small children, and pets are not allowed, ’ but I can’t very well do that, can I?”
Abby shook her head. Her heart went out to Lidia—the grand old lady was past retirement age but was still working, and now she was working without Oliver. Must be difficult.
Lidia was watching the customer with the sleeping infant in the baby stroller. The young woman, with dreadlocks tied back in a red bandanna, had removed several pairs of earrings and was holding each pair up to her ears for feedback from her girlfriends before tossing the pair aside and reaching for another.
“Oh, dear Lord!” Lidia exclaimed. “One pair at a time. That’s our policy.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “When the earrings are all laid out willy-nilly, it’s so easy for them to disappear.” She glanced up at the wall clock. “I’m sorry, Abby. I need to help that girl make her selection. I also have to close shop and drive to the nursing home to sit with Oliver while he has his dinner. He grumbles when he has to eat alone. Would it be possible for you to return tomorrow, dear? I’ll see if I can find that receipt for you.”
Sensing Lidia’s utter distress, Abby nodded and returned the earring to the evidence envelope in her pocket. “Would you like for Philippe and me to flip over the OPEN/CLOSED sign as we leave?”
“Oh, yes, dear, if you would. I’ll lock the door behind you.”
Abby plucked a business card from her pocket and handed it to Lidia. “Call me if you or Oliver remembers anything else or you locate the receipt. It’s important.”
&nbs
p; “Of course, dear.”
Abby squeezed the old woman’s hand. “Thanks.”
From the jewelry store, Abby walked alongside Philippe as they took the shortcut through the alley from Main Street and then headed up to the church school yard where their cars were parked.
At the cars, Philippe started to say something but was interrupted by the bell at the Church of the Holy Names as it began chiming in harmonic sequence five times. He stared into space, waiting until the echo of the last chime died away. Finally, he looked into Abby’s eyes. “I hope your Lidia Vittorio finds the receipt, Abby. I think this is an important clue, n’est-ce pas?”
“Might be,” Abby replied. “If it reveals the man’s identity, we can talk with him. I want to know what misdeed he did and what the wife knows. What act could have been so egregious as to compel him to give her those earrings? Adultery? Abuse? Murder?”
Philippe smiled broadly. “Fascinating. You are the most interesting detective. I like how you detect.”
Abby looked at him curiously. Where are you going with that? She felt relieved when Kat pulled up and parked alongside them. Exiting her cruiser, Kat said, “You’ve got to clear your messages, girlfriend. Your cell is going straight to voice mail. Again. What’s up with that?”
Abby reached for her cell in her pocket.
Philippe extended his hand to Kat. “Officer Petrovsky.”
Abby watched Philippe appraising Kat. His voice sounded sexier than it had all day. For a split second, she felt a twinge of envy, but she quickly reminded herself for the umpteenth time that Philippe was a paying client. She couldn’t let herself feel that way about him.
“Right back at you, Mr. Bonheur,” Kat said.
Abby knew Kat loved to flirt but never in the line of duty. Turning her attention back to her smartphone, Abby exclaimed, “You called four times! Sorry! I must not have turned the ringer back on after shutting down the phone when I got home at dawn.”
“Dawn?” Kat seemed surprised. “So your chickens and bees had to do without you for a night? I hope you can see what this means.” Kat eyed Philippe but directed the question to Abby. “Can you say social life?”
Abby sighed. “I’m working on it.”
“How’s the case going?” Kat asked.
Abby opted for the shortest reply she could think of. “Still looking for a major break.”
“Well, I come with a tidbit,” said Kat.
“Spill it.”
“So, here’s the setup. I have to work the park tonight. A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“Sheesh . . . Is it that time of year already?” Abby asked. To Philippe, Abby explained, “It’s a major fund-raiser for our local acting troupe and for the park. It also raises the profile of our town.”
Kat looked directly at Philippe. “Your brother got rave reviews for his beautiful dessert creations at the festival last year.” To Abby, she said, “But with Jean-Louis gone, organizers had to pick someone else to make the world-class desserts this year. Guess who?”
Before Abby could say anything, Kat remarked, “Stephen B. Flanders, now at the Baker’s Dozen. Still goes by the name Jean-Louis gave him, Etienne.”
“I’m not surprised,” Abby said. “He wanted more money, and going to a competitor, giving away Jean-Louis’s secrets, could be his ticket.”
“Well, we all want more money,” Kat said.
Abby broke into a wide grin and said, “Must have thought his dough would rise higher somewhere else.”
“Oh, please.” Kat rolled her eyes. “Seriously, look into Etienne’s alibi. In his sworn statement, he said he texted a friend in the middle of the night from his friend’s apartment in San Francisco. However, his car was seen in Las Flores at four thirty in the morning.”
Abby raised a brow, fully aware of the quizzical expression that must have taken over her face.
“Vanity plates,” Kat replied. “Etienne has vanity plates.” Kat filled Abby in on the details.
“Ah.” Abby gazed at Philippe. “You know, suddenly I have an insatiable urge for a pastry.”
Kat pushed her thumbs into her duty belt. “I thought you might.”
Abby reached over and laid her hand on Philippe’s arm. “Feel like taking in a performance of Shakespeare in the park?”
He did not hesitate in his reply. “Park . . . two beautiful women. Bien sûr.”
Inside the downtown park, Abby led the way along the paved walkway to the wooden theater set near the gazebo and arboretum. A temporary cyclone fence had been erected to keep out park visitors without tickets. Philippe chose front-row seating and promised to save Abby a seat while she went to get her pastry.
The food court was situated where it usually was, in the stand of old oak trees. Abby spied Etienne working in the Baker’s Dozen tent and watched him awhile before approaching him. He expertly sliced a tall triple-layer white cake with a fruit filling. Using squirt bottles, one raspberry colored and one a dark shade of chocolate, he swiftly created a pattern on each white plastic plate set out on the table before placing slices of cake upon the pattern. He had dressed the part of an expert baker—a toque blanche and a shirt with a double row of snaps, trousers with black-and-white stripes, clogs, and a wide name tag, on which the name Jean-Louis had given him, Etienne, had been written in cursive.
When Abby heard the announcer asking for applause for the festival sponsors before the actors took the stage for act 1, she approached Etienne with her questions about the death of his former employer.
“Like I told the police,” the young chef explained, “I went up to San Francisco for the night. I stayed over at a friend’s place. I didn’t even hear about the death until I got home around noon the next day.”
“Your friend got a name?” Abby asked.
“Wayne Wu. Call him.”
“Well, the police did call him. Wu, your flight attendant friend, says that you come and go and that he didn’t even see you that night, because he was at the airport, waiting to take off from SFO and fly to Denver.”
“Like I said, he lets me use it when I’m in the city . . . North Beach neighborhood. I sent him a text at midnight. I remember hearing the foghorn sound just as I sent it. Check it out.”
“Okay. What did you do after you sent the text?”
Etienne didn’t answer, so Abby pressed on.
“Didn’t you drive back to Las Flores? Weren’t you here in town by five in the morning on the day Jean-Louis died?”
The young chef set aside the bottles of raspberry puree and chocolate and picked up a paper towel. He wiped icing from a serrated knife and set it aside.
“Look, I went to see Jean-Louis that night, around ten. He was working. I asked him for money. He said no. End of story.”
“Why do you need money?”
“Why does anybody need money? It’s not like I was asking for a gift. He owed me. Anyway, I made him an investment offer.”
“What kind of investment?”
Etienne seemed to be thinking through his story as he tossed the paper towel into the nearby trash can and retrieved another from the roll on the table, which he used to wipe his hands.
Abby waited. Still no reply, so she decided to take a different approach.
“Etienne, I’m not working for the police or the county sheriff. I don’t care what nefarious activity you are into. I am only interested in who killed Jean-Louis Bonheur. His family members are devastated and want answers. Talk to me, and I go away. Keep silent, and you are going under a microscope.”
Etienne tossed the paper towel and reached for a long box of plastic wrap. He methodically covered each cake piece on its plate. “Chef fired me and never gave me another cent. An opportunity came along. I took it.”
“Opportunity? What kind of opportunity?”
He looked up and narrowed his eyes. “A plant-based business.”
Abby arched a brow. “Well, I can understand using edible plants and herbs in pastries, but I suspect those are not the kind of
plants you mean, are they? I mean, we’re not talking sugar-dusted rose petals or crystallized violets here, are we?”
Etienne stopped what he was doing to stare at her. His tone grew more sarcastic. “You’re not the police. I don’t have to tell you anything.”
Abby responded in a steely-edged voice. “True, but I have contacts at all levels of law enforcement. With one phone call, your life radically changes. The sooner you talk to me, the sooner I go away.”
Etienne frowned. “Whatever!” He lined up several more plates of cake to wrap in plastic. He seemed to be thinking about her threat. His tone shifted. “I asked Jean-Louis for money to pay for a place to dry some plants.”
“So you need a drying shed. Not talking about herbs, are you?”
He shook his head. “I think you know exactly what I mean.... I found a place . . . more like a shack, but no way to grab it.”
Abby rubbed the lobe of her ear as she thought about how to phrase the next question. “So you and your friends, you wanted to actually rent the place, instead of just moving into this drying shed?”
Etienne looked at her dismissively. “And have the owner call the cops? Get real.”
“Okay . . . so, what kind of money are we talking about?”
“Seven hundred rent, fifteen hundred up front for that shack.”
“Where is the shack?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He leaned over and retrieved a new roll of plastic wrap from a box of supplies and continued cutting sheets of it to wrap the plates.
For a moment, the thought of Lucas digging up the marijuana field he’d found crossed Abby’s mind, but she said nothing. While she didn’t appreciate Etienne copping an attitude, as long as she got some answers from him, she would push him for more.
“Did Jean-Louis give you the money?”
“Nope.”
“So what did you do?”
“Said a few choice words . . . initiated my backup plan.”
“Which was . . . ?”
“Give me money or kiss your reputation good-bye. Folks around here fear what they don’t understand . . . and they wouldn’t understand their town’s illustrious pastry chef stealing recipes from other chefs and elbowing others aside to win a competition.”
