“And here it is,” Jane says, pulling my attention to the piece in the center of the room. A large pedestal case draws the eye, but not nearly as much as the promised diamond spikes contained within. “What do you think?”
Oh, man. What do I think?
It’s hideous. Starbrite is an accurate description for the starburst pattern with its round center and radiating spikes, but I don’t know anyone—short of a medieval torture mistress—who would want protruding shards of the world’s hardest gem that close to her jugular. Not to mention the yellow gold so typical of this era is off-putting in a setting that size.
But.
Diamonds.
Really big diamonds.
“I love it,” I say.
She laughs. “It’s beastly, isn’t it? There are all of five women in this world who could pull it off, and not a single one of them is under the age of seventy.”
My grandmother, for example, could totally make it work. But I’m determined to be polite and uninterested, so I say, “That’s not true. You could probably wear anything and look great.”
“You think?” she asks and indicates her barren neck with a raised brow. Like her slender, ringless fingers, the lack of jewelry suits her, gives her a hard edge I find appealing and intimidating at the same time. “You’re sweet, but I don’t wear much in the way of jewelry. The things I like are soft and feminine—two things I can’t pull off, no matter how hard I try, so I gave up years ago. A small, delicate thing like you, however…”
She makes a sweeping perusal of my own minimal adornment, but I don’t, as I expect, feel uncomfortable about it. “Hmm,” she continues. “I see you’re like me. You aren’t wearing anything other than your wedding band and that single chain.”
Both were gifts from my husband, and I love them because of their simplicity. The infinity knot around my neck might not be worth much from a financial standpoint, but it is, without question, the most valuable piece of jewelry I’ve ever owned.
Fingering the delicate chain, I think of the man who gave it to me—along with his promises of fidelity and affection. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve either, especially since a part of me is standing here contemplating major theft, preparing to stab one of those diamond spikes in his back.
“Yeah,” I say and sigh. “I’m a minimalist.”
“That’s an area where you and your mother don’t align. She loved jewelry of all varieties, diamonds especially.”
I latch on to the change of topic like it’s oxygen. “Tell me your favorite memory of her,” I beg, turning my back on the Starbrite Necklace with a pivot of my heel.
Jane’s brows raise a fraction. She seems surprised by how easily I’m able to dismiss ten million dollars on display, but there’s no way to explain without giving myself away. Diamonds are easy. Relationships are hard.
“There are so many to choose from,” she says carefully. “What do you want to know?”
Everything. All of it. What she was like as a child, what her hopes and dreams for the future held, why she gave up her whole life to marry a man who was her exact opposite.
How she gave up her whole life to marry a man who was her exact opposite.
I settle for, “Were you there when she met my dad?”
“No, I wasn’t. I’m sorry. I wish I had been—when we were teenagers, all we could talk about was our future careers, husbands, children…” As she trails off, her eyes turn mistily to mine. “The career I managed, but the family side of things has always eluded me. She did a lot better at that than me.”
I don’t yet trust myself to speak, so it’s just as well that Jane keeps going.
“Lily and I had a falling out a few months before she met your father, and we never got a chance to reconcile before she became pregnant with you and… Well, you know the rest.”
Yes. I’m familiar with the details. That’s when I was born, when she died—when I stole the one thing my dad cared about most in this world. It will forever be my greatest take.
“We had a fight about something stupid, a dress I borrowed and didn’t return, and that was the last I ever saw of her. I tried to stay in contact—several times, I tried—but she didn’t need me anymore. Not when she had your father.”
I don’t like the way this conversation is going, the idea that friends and husbands are mutually exclusive, so I attempt to turn her thoughts. “What about the thing you and Pierre were talking about before?” I ask. “The switching paint lids and stuff? Did you guys pull a lot of pranks like that?”
Jane turns her head as if to avert my gaze, the sharp line of her hair cutting across her cheek. “Not really, no. Don’t get me wrong—we could have gotten away with that and much more. We were young and wealthy and, in your mother’s case at least, breathtakingly gorgeous.”
I nod, unwilling to say anything aloud for fear Jane might remember where we are and stop.
“It would have been so easy for your mom to become spoiled by it all, but she didn’t.” An almost perplexed line folds her brow. “I don’t know how she managed it, to be honest. Everything in the world was hers for the taking, but she still managed to be kind to everyone—it didn’t matter who they were or where they came from. I’ve never known anyone with such a good heart.”
I nod again, except this time it’s to keep myself from bursting into tears. Jane’s description of my mother is everything I’d hoped and feared it would be. Her beauty, her virtue, her nobility—and me, standing in a museum with her oldest friend, casing ten-million-dollar jewels and scanning for exits.
“What else can you tell me about her?” I ask, afraid to learn more but unable to stop now. “Did she have any fears, any bad habits? What sorts of things made her cry? What did her laugh sound like?”
Instead of answering, Jane shakes her sleek black bob. “So many questions. She was never very patient, either. Don’t be angry if I don’t give you all my stories at once, okay? I like having an excuse to keep seeing you. Let’s go look at the hammered gold bracelet again, shall we?”
I agree, pleased with the distraction this suggestion affords. I’m also grateful to return to my survey of the second floor, since I still have a job to do, little though I like it. I make one last circle of the room, committing its dimensions and layout to memory. I’d also like to nail down details about the event while I have Jane on hand, but she takes a few furtive glances at her watch, and I realize I’m probably keeping her from more important places.
“Thank you, Pierre, for letting us see this,” I say as we make our way out. He doesn’t frisk us or anything, but he does make us sign the paper again. “The collection is stunning—it really is. I assume this will be closed on the night of the ball?”
“Without a doubt,” he replies and commands the lasers to go back up again. He also locks up behind us, the lights plunging as he once again enters the key code. “We’ve even hired an outside security company to add to our numbers. It never hurts to be careful.”
I don’t disagree. Extra security is exactly what this facility needs. Except that Oz is on the payroll of half the security companies in the area. And the other half?
Well, they’ve never stopped us before.
As we leave the Conrad behind us, I detain Jane long enough to ask her one more question. “You know, with all the extra security needed, did you guys ever think it would be easier to hold the ball somewhere else?”
She casts me a curious, searching look. Crap. I glance away and focus on a nearby pigeon’s attempt to steal a sandwich. Did I push too hard? Make my interest in the collection too obvious? Riker and Oz are so much better at reconnaissance than me—they both have a subtlety I lack.
“Moving the event was discussed,” Jane replies, still watching me. “But in the end, we decided it was worth the risk. The best things in life usually are, don’t you think?”
I swallow and
nod, feeling the full weight of those words. She might be talking about high-end charity events and diamond collections, but I know better.
The best things in life are the riskiest of all.
* * *
I stop by Jordan’s apartment on the way home. The set of blueprints, which are beginning to show serious signs of wear and tear, are tucked under my arm.
“You might want to look into your home security system,” I say as she pulls open the door to reveal the beckoning scent of vanilla and ammonia—a clear sign she’s either cleaning or working on a new chemical formula. “You’ve been burgled.”
She blinks at me. “But I don’t have a home security system. I have an Oz.”
I give the papers a shake. “Then you might want to look into Oz, because he’s slipping. Is he here?”
“Uh, no. He’s at work.”
Work. Right. Ten million bucks says he’s wearing a security guard’s uniform and training up on museum protocol. Either that or he’s setting appointments for elevator repair. We’re not a hold-a-real-job sort of people. I did a lengthy stint as a volunteer dance instructor last year, but that ended along with my deception of Grant.
I shake the blueprints again. Jordan takes them this time, her brow furrowed as she unrolls them and registers the familiar sight. “Where did you get these?”
“Riker had them. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you. He somehow managed to extract them from your high-security chest without your knowing about it. I think he was using them to woo Tara.”
“Oh. Um. About that.”
“About him wooing Tara? I know—it’s gross, right? Do you think she chains him up? Do you think he likes it?”
“Actually, Pen…”
“I know, I know,” I say. “It’s my fault. I’m the one who asked him to keep an eye on her. But of all the people in the world who could withstand her lures, I thought for sure he’d be one of them. He knows what that woman is to me. He knows how much it would hurt me to see them working together.”
I’d intended to play this light and breezy, leaping over the emotional hurdles with sure-footed grace, but I’m unable to keep the bitterness out of my tone at that last part. Jordan notices, and her voice goes flat. “You found out.”
“That these blueprints aren’t for a jewelry store?” I nod, not waiting for her confirmation. I don’t trust what will happen if I hear her say the words out loud.
Yes, Penelope, we lied. Yes, Penelope, we’re moving on without you. It’s been fun. See you in the next life.
Jordan bites her lower lip. “Does that mean you know—”
“That they’re for the Conrad Museum? Yeah. That too.”
She pushes open the door, inviting me in with one wordless gesture. I almost take her up on the offer, falling into the vanilla chemical lab that feels so much like home.
But it’s not my home. Not anymore.
“No, thanks,” I say. My voice is harsher than I intend it to be, but I blame it on the emotion I’m struggling to keep at bay. “I only came by to let you know that I jeopardized your take today. Not on purpose—I stopped by to see the collection with a friend of my grandmother’s, so I had to sign the visitor’s list with my real name. I’ll be the first one they haul in for questioning if anything goes missing.”
“You did what?” Jordan asks. “Pen, how could you? What were you thinking?”
That’s it. No apologies. No excuses. Just a reminder that by standing alone in the middle, I’m in everybody’s way.
My eyes sting. “I don’t care what else you guys do. Just don’t steal the Starbrite, okay? It’s too hot.”
“But—”
I fling up a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay out of your way from here on out, and I won’t turn you in for this or any other crimes.” Despite everything Grant and I promised each other, despite the fact that Simon all but begged for me to solve the Peep-Toe case, my FBI investigating career is over before it began. And so is everything else. “You might think I’m not much of a friend anymore, but I promise I’m good for that much.”
I turn to leave, unwilling and unable to face that silent, fixed look on Jordan’s face any longer. I might not be as good as Oz at nonverbal communication, but I know what that look says: I’m not part of the team anymore, and telling me anything while I’m so close to Grant is dangerous.
Which is fine. Really. I would never put my friends in a position where they feel like they have to choose between me and the job.
Mostly because I know all too well how that feels. It’s an awful lot like getting ripped in half.
22
THE PHOTO
The next day dawns bright and clear—what Jordan would call ideal conditions for scientific experimentation; what Riker would consider a blight on all attempts at secretive reconnaissance.
“Every goddamn person in the city comes out at the first sign of sunshine,” is his most common complaint on days like these. “Don’t they know I’m trying to monitor the deliveryman’s movements?”
I’m not trying to monitor anyone’s movements today—or ever again, apparently—so the world is free to come and go as it pleases. Instead, I find myself elbows deep in a pile of dirt, cursing so loud that even squirrel-hating Harold across the street starts to look worried.
“So that’s where you hide your money. I’ve been wondering.”
A shadow crosses my path, literally and figuratively. I look up, the sun beaming in my eyes, and indulge in one last curse for good measure. There are several people I have no wish to see today, and Tara Lewis is at the top of the list.
“You’ll have to keep wondering, then,” I say, unable to keep the pique out of my voice. “It’s not here. Who would keep millions of dollars under a rhododendron?”
Tara tilts her head. “Is that a rhododendron?”
“Of course it’s a rhododendron.” I rock back on my heels and stab my spade in the dirt. It’s only my second choice for the sharp metal tip, but there are witnesses around. “You’re being contrary on purpose.”
“No, I dated a florist once. I’m pretty sure that’s an azalea.”
“You mean you conned a florist once. I think I know my own garden better than you do.”
“That’s what she said.”
I try not to laugh. I don’t want to laugh. It’s not a good joke, and the last thing I want to do is encourage Tara to stick around. But an hour of hunching in one place and the realization that I couldn’t tell the difference between a rhododendron and an azalea if the fate of the world hung in the balance is enough to tip me over the edge.
“Help me up,” I grumble and take a small amount of satisfaction from slipping my dirt-covered hand into hers. “It’s the least you can do after all the problems you’ve caused.”
She ignores me, staring at her dirty palm in confusion. “Are you really gardening?”
“You can’t tell?” I glance over the small patch of land where I’ve spent the better part of my morning, scraping dirt and pulling weeds, and realize I can’t tell either. Stupid gardening. Why is this even a thing people do? “Damn. I was trying to be normal.”
She laughs outright. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Normal. Ordinary. The kind of person who takes delight in making green things poke up out of the earth.”
“Why?”
That’s a good question, but I don’t have a good answer. Because this is my life now feels as pathetic as it sounds, and because the alternative is to steal someone else’s identity and practice being normal that way has a decidedly disturbing ring to it.
“It’s something I’m trying out,” I say.
“And?”
I sigh. “I’d rather sit inside an empty box for fifteen hours with only a single air hole poked in the side.”
Her sympathetic wince shows how much she understands my feelings. Ther
e is no such thing as normal for women like us. At least Tara has the good sense not to try.
“What are you doing all the way in Rye anyway?” I ask sullenly. “I don’t remember inviting you.”
She gestures at the sidewalk behind her, where a flashy suitcase with a rose-gold shell rests. “If you’re going to keep spending time with your grandmother, I figured you’d need to supplement your wardrobe with more than one skirt. I brought supplies.”
“Oh.” I’m taken aback by the straightforward—and generous—answer. “That was nice of you.”
“Yeah, well. I guess I’m not the monster you always make me out to be. Can I come in?”
I give in with a shrug and head for the door. I could use the company now that I’ve confirmed my inefficacy at gardening, along with everything else. Nothing would have been solved if I discovered a green thumb and a passion for horticulture, but at least it would have been something. Penelope Blue: motherless, jobless, and friendless, but quite handy with a hoe.
“There are some casual dresses in there and some slacks that might fit if you have them hemmed.” Tara drags the suitcase into the house behind me, thumping it on each step. We don’t get any farther than the living room, though, as I’m disinclined to be hospitable.
“Good to know.”
“I also have a few formal gowns you might need for things like gala events, but you should stop by and try them on first, see which ones you like.”
Gala events sounds awfully suspect, considering how I spent my day yesterday, but as much as I’d like to shut this woman down and escort her out of my life, curiosity gets the better of me.
It always does, the cheeky bastard.
“That would be great, thanks. I have a thing next week that I’ll need a gown for, so you have good timing.”
“The Black and White Ball?” Tara picks the dirt out of her nails with feigned interest. “Yes, I remember reading about that. You’ll hate it, but the guests are guaranteed to arrive dripping in diamonds. If I were the Peep-Toe Prowler, I wouldn’t miss it.”
“If you were the Peep-Toe Prowler,” I reply as calmly as I can, “missing it would be the only thing keeping you out of federal prison.”
Saving Mr. Perfect Page 21
