A Steal of a Deal

by Ginny Aiken

  “You’re delirious.”

  “No, I’m not. Where were you—really—when our house went up in flames? Who eats dinner at eleven at night?”

  He sputters.

  “Seriously. You’ve been right there every time something happened. And then, just when our house looked like a Baked Alaska dessert, you showed up with some goofy story about a dinner that ran late. I think you can put our minds at ease— shouldn’t be too hard. Please.”

  Silence stuffs the room—again.

  “Well?” I ask. “Is there a good reason you can’t answer my questions?”

  Mr. Not-So-Magnificent-at-the-Moment seethes.

  Aunt Weeby gasps. “Andrea Autumn Adams! What is wrong with you, sugarplum? A good ol’ knock on the noggin doesn’t normally knock all common sense right out a body’s ear like that. Apologize to Max. Right away too.”

  Miss Mona lays a hand on Max’s forearm. “I know she can get pretty strange at times, and her questions were awfully offensive, but Max? If I’d been burnt out of my home and had my brand-new car blown to bits too, I’d be likely to want to know where you were when the house went up in flames.”

  Max’s cheeks turn red and he looks out the window. “I met Glory and Allison for dinner when they finished work.”

  “That’s the big secret?” I ask. “I don’t get it. Not for one minute. That’s too normal. Why wouldn’t you just tell us? What’s the big deal? I can ask both of them, and you know they’ll tell.”

  The red goes redder. “That’s it. We went to dinner, talked for a while. Allison went home about nine or so, and Glory and I stayed at the restaurant for a while longer. We talked about the trip, working at the S.T.U.D., you and your fixation on rocks . . .” He shrugs. “We talked—that’s it—and before I knew it, it was late. We said good night, and I went home.” Good thing I didn’t let anyone know I’ve fallen for him. He and Glory have something going already. That’s just what I’ve been afraid might happen. The knowledge brings on a flare of the green-eyed nasties, but I make myself tamp it down. “As long as Allison, Glory, and the restaurant all back you up,” I say, in an abundance of magnanimity, “then I have no problem apologizing for my accusation.”

  “Well, then,” he says, his voice . . . umm . . . sarcastic—and who can blame him, if he’s as innocent as I really hope he is, in spite of the Glory part. “Then I have no problem wishing you well and getting my sorry behind home again. I suppose you won’t object to my doing that, right?”

  I blush. “Just go.”

  As he makes for the door, the telephone on the ugly, hospital-issue nightstand rings. Aunt Weeby answers, listens, then holds it out to me. “You won’t believe who’s calling you, sugarplum.”

  My eyes still glued to Max—who’s standing by the door, his back to me, hand on the knob—I reach for the receiver. “Hello?”

  “Andrea!” A voice from my past bursts with exaggerated cheer. “I’m happy to hear the rumors of your death aren’t true after all.”

  “Roger?” Is it really my old boss? The one convicted of grand theft? The one who’s supposed to be rotting in jail? “Where are you?”

  He takes a moment’s pause. “Where do you think I am? I still have three years to serve on my sentence.”

  This is too weird. “And you’re calling me?”

  A new silence lengthens.

  Max, still by the door, turns and crosses his arms.

  I keep my peace.

  Roger sighs. “I’ve always thought the world of you, Andie. You know that. I heard you were killed when your car blew up, and, well . . . I didn’t want to believe it. I called the PD in that little town where you’re living these days, and they gave me the number to the hospital’s switchboard.”

  Did he call to make sure I lived? Or did he call to find out where to have me finished off? I wouldn’t put anything past Roger now that I know what he and his murder-one-convicted wife are capable of doing. Freaky. Way freaky.

  “As you can see—hear—I’m fine, Roger. Bruised and crisscrossed with scrapes, sure, but I’ll be okay.” What do you say to someone who used you and your knowledge to his illegal benefit? “How are you?”

  Yuck.

  He lets out a nervous laugh. “Fine, fine. Better now that I know you weren’t hurt.”

  The false enthusiasm sets off more alarms. “I’m surprised you even heard about my car. It only just happened, and I didn’t think you’d have much access to—”

  I stop. What do you say to a con?

  “I’m not in solitary, Andie. I have access to a phone. Tiffany’s the one at a high-security facility. Don’t forget. I never killed anyone.”

  “True.” His trophy wife’s the one who took care of that.

  He forces a couple of chuckles. “I hear you’ve been traveling again.”

  Hmm . . . might we finally be getting to the reason for his call? “Aunt Weeby, Miss Mona, a couple of studio employees, and I went on a short-term mission trip to help at an orphanage in Kashmir.”

  “Bet you couldn’t resist a visit to the mines.”

  I roll my eyes. Everything’s getting clearer by the minute. “We shot some film of the holes in the rocks. Played-out mines don’t make for exciting footage.”

  “But the new ones do.”

  There you have it. “Are you buying in to a bunch of rumors?”

  “I don’t think anyone gets much in the underground market for rumors these days. New Mine Kashmir sapphires? That’s another story.”

  I’ve been accused, interrogated, burned, blasted, and hurt, all because of those stupid blue stones. I don’t have the time or the patience for Roger’s game. “If you’re interested in smuggled goods, which I wouldn’t be if I were sitting where you are, I can’t help you. I didn’t visit any new mines, real or rumored, and I don’t have any Kashmiri stones. Not legal ones, and no way would I get within a continent of the illegal ones.”

  “Andrea!” His indignation doesn’t ring true. “Where would you get such an idea?”

  From your track record; you’re not in jail for nothing.

  I sigh. “What do you really want, Roger?”

  The clock ticks about thirty seconds before he speaks. “Okay. I’m going to level with you. I hear a pair of magnificent Kashmir stones have been making the rounds. Underground, of course. Any idea how good they really are? And where they might be?”

  “Even if I did, which I don’t, what good would it do you to know?”

  He hems and haws, coughs and clears his throat. “None. I just . . . like to keep up with the good old gem trade. I’m not going to be here forever, and hope to set up shop again someday.”

  Not in this lifetime. Who’d buy a pebble from this con?

  “That, Roger, sounds about as real as your ex-wife—the second one. The bleached and siliconed one who killed for a parcel of rubies and the bucks they’d bring.”

  “No. Really. I’m just curious. Wondered if you knew where they’d gone. But I guess you don’t, do you?”

  My head throbs, and I’ve had enough. “Goodbye, Roger. And good luck. Sounds like you don’t learn the easy way.”

  When I cut him off, I realize that Max, Aunt Weeby, and Miss Mona are all staring. Before any of them gets a chance to speak, I say, “You heard. I don’t want to talk about it. And you’re all welcome to come to whatever conclusion you like best. I’m going to sleep.”

  I roll over on my left side, which takes some doing, since that’s where they have me leashed to the IV pole but also where I’m less scraped, close my eyes, and pray for rest. “Goodbye, gang. Don’t come back for a couple of hours. I love you all, but right now, I love sleep more.”

  The only thing I hear is the click-click of high heels against the hard hospital floor, followed by the soft slap of the closing door.

  Peace. At last.

  1500

  I’m the victim of a conspiracy.

  Fine. You can tell me I’ve lost my mind. Conspiracies are the stuff of lunatics. Or so they
say. But I know better.

  Don’t laugh. It’s true. The forces of torture have come together to keep me from getting any decent sleep. Someone, and never the same someone, wakes me up every time I try.

  See? Conspiracy.

  How are they conspiring, you ask? Let me tell ya. About forty minutes after I kick out the Terrible Trio, a torture specialist disguised as a nurse wakes me up to take my vitals. Then, when she decides she’s done poking and prodding, she offers me—get this—a sleeping pill.

  “Is there any chance,” I ask, “that you could let me sleep when I’m sleeping? I mean, that’s not when I need a sleeping pill.”

  “Yu do vat I say, and I do my yob,” she shoots back.

  “Oh-kay. How soon can I get out of here?”

  “Ask dock-torr.”

  My first instinct—and they’re not nearly as rotten as Max says—is to pick up the phone, call this prison’s business office, and threaten to cancel my health insurance company’s payments if they don’t spring me now.

  But then, with my luck, they’d stick me with the minor fortune this little spree through the health care system is sure to cost. Goodness knows I can’t pay it on my own. Especially not now that I have to replace my brand-new car.

  I’m going to have to scrabble down deep to find any patience to exercise. The “dock-torrrrrrrrr” will do rounds at least once tomorrow. That’s when I’ll make my move. A move out of here, of course.

  I have a creep, if not more than one, to track down.

  The fire and the break-ins—plural, since I know my backpack, like the Kashmir footage, was stolen—could have been carried out by more than one perp.

  Who they might be, I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.

  Then I sleep again, only to wake up to the “dock-torrrr” and Nurse Evil-Eye discussing my case. “Hey! I’m here. Please wake me up the next time you stop by to talk about me.”

  Nurse Evil-Eye gives me a know-it-all glare. “Yu said to leaf you sleep next time.”

  I blush. “Well, yes. I did. But you knew I wanted to speak with the dock—” I stop, catch myself before she can accuse me of making fun of her, which I really don’t want to do, no matter how smart-mouthed I tend to be.

  “Dr. . . .” I read his name tag. “Dr. Billings, aside from my ruined hair and a couple of burns and scrapes, I’m really okay. I’d like to sign myself out.”

  We waste the next nine or so minutes arguing, during which he flashes the equivalent of a laser beam into my poor eyes, but in the end I remind both medical professionals that the law allows me to accept responsibility for my health.

  The doctor sighs. “Very well, Miss Adams. I’ll have the paperwork prepared. But from what I hear, you no longer have a car, and you’re in no condition to drive even if you did, so you will need to call for transportation.”

  “Thank you. I’ll call my aunt.”

  Aunt Weeby, of course, is aghast. She tries to talk me out of my “lunacy,” but I’m determined. There’s not much I can do in the hospital but steam and stew. That won’t get me anywhere but into a permanent state of migraine. Dr. Billings does give me a prescription for horse-pill-sized painkillers. I’m grateful and I let him know.

  In the end, it’s Davina who comes to pick me up, chauffeurs me to Miss Mona’s mini-mansion, and helps haul me to bed.

  But before I crawl under the fluffy duvet and lay my head on the cloudlike pillows, I kneel on the superplush carpet to hook into my Andie-to-God line. I thank him for my life, for the home Miss Mona’s happy to share, for the blessings I still have.

  I also ask for his help in deciphering this sapphire mess. With every instinct screaming against it, but with every scratch, bruise, and burn begging for it, I pop one of the pain pills, and in a blink or so, I zonk out.

  By the time I wake up with a clear head, since I’ve finally rested, I know what I have to do. I grab the bedside phone and call the salon for an appointment. Clumpy, Bozo the Clown hair went out of style a long time ago.

  And I need a measure of normalcy to carry on.

  Think about it. We go on a missions’ trip. But somewhere along the way, Miss Mona changes it to a business trip, one where we plan to film legendary mines. Who shows up?

  Yep. Max does.

  Two Kashmiri smugglers get snuffed out. Why?

  Because there are Kashmir sapphires involved.

  Who leaves the scene of the crime, so to speak, the minute he can flee the scrutiny and the heat?

  You got it: Max.

  Who’s lurking in the fire’s background? Max.

  Who’s on-site for the burglaries? Max.

  All right. You have a point. I don’t know that I believe he bashed his own head. But let’s not get hung up on that detail, since there’s also the bombed car. And who was on-site for that too? Max again.

  You do see the light at the end of my California gem-dunce surfer boy nightmare tunnel, don’t you? I’ll finally get to ditch the gemologically uninformed cohost. Yeah, the one cozying up to Glory at late-night dinners.

  Once he’s gone, the pain pills better work on heartache.

  Garbed in another of Miss Mona’s warm-up suits, this one lilac with fuchsia racing stripes down the sides of the legs— shudder—I hit the salon and leave the rest of my home-fried frizz on the cutting floor. To my surprise, the short-short cut looks over-the-top chic.

  My next stop is Macy’s—a girl needs something to wear other than a senior citizen’s workout wear. Forty-five minutes later, in a pair of tailored, soft-gray linen slacks and a pale gold silk top, I begin to feel more like myself. I’m happy to recognize—again—how much confidence nice clothes can give you.

  Then I head to Miss Mona’s to use the phone—my cell’s with whomever pinched my backpack. No one should be at the Latimer home right now, so I won’t have to worry about sneaky eavesdroppers. The Daunting Duo decided at breakfast that, in order to feel themselves again, they have to—have to—hit the flea-market circuit for the day. How junking can possibly help, I’ll never know. But, since it works well into my plans, I can’t complain.

  You see, I’m about to dance the fine line between creative evasion and perjury. Why, you ask? To investigate Max’s past once and for all.

  Armed with the gem-dunce’s bio and a brand-new yellow legal pad, I call the police department in Podunk-in-the-middle-of-nowhere, Missouri, where Max used to read the weather for the local TV station.

  I launch my spiel. “Hi. This is Autumn Adams with the S.T.U.D. Network. Because of a number of unfortunate events, we’re investigating the backgrounds of all our current and former employees. I need a copy of Mr. Maxwell Matthews’ criminal record—arrests of any sort, complaints filed. You know the drill.”

  The silence on the other end makes me wonder what kind of blunder I’ve made. “I’m new at this,” I add. “So if I need to fax something to you, please let me know.”

  “We don’t normally do things this way, but since I remember Mr. Matthews from when he reported our weather here, and I know he has no record, I don’t have a problem telling you that over the phone.”

  “Oh.” I can’t stop the disappointment from leaking into my voice. “I see. No record? No speeding tickets? No parking violations? No murder convictions?”

  The answer is a very final click.

  After four more tries with the same results, I come to a reluctant realization. Unless our Max has assumed the identity of the über-law-abiding and ultra-booooooring real Max Matthews, the guy’s clean as the proverbial whistle. Four police departments; no issues.

  I get nothing on him. Zero. Zip. Zilch.

  If past performance predicts future action, then Max isn’t our perp.

  The half of me that feels a heart tug every time I see him rejoices. The half of me that’s desperate to find the creep who’s terrorizing us groans. I have to dig deeper, cast a wider net to come up with other potential smugglers-cum-arsonists-cum-vandals-cum-killers and bombers as well.

  I�
�m starting to believe I’m not going to find them within the S.T.U.D. family. So who, if not one of ours? The Rus-sells? If I remember correctly, they’re from somewhere out west. I can’t see one of them zipping cross-country to wreak havoc in our lives . . .

  Now that I have to consider that, I’m not thrilled to note it’s time for me to head in to the studio. I have to get together with—who else?—Max so we can plan our first post-Kashmir show.

  First, though, I’ll have to call for a rental car. I do need wheels, even to hit the car dealerships as soon as my insurance claim is approved. Isn’t it awesome when car-rental companies pick you up wherever you’re stuck?

  After I drop off my rescuer back at his office and while there, sign the million papers for the rental contract, I head to the S.T.U.D., where my new hair creates a sensation.

  Allison’s eyes go huge. “Oooh, Andie! I love it. Of course, we’re going to have to play around with your makeup to make the most of your cheekbones. You’re going to look faboo!” “The camera’s going to love you.” Hannah, my usual camerawoman, narrows her eyes and tilts her head to get a better look. “Oh, yes. This is nice. You should have cut it sooner.” “Sure thing, Hannah.” I wink. “Next time you think I need a makeover I’ll call the local arsonist and have him do his thing. Just for you.”

  Hannah laughs. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it, you brat.”

  “Okay. I’m a brat. But I’m a live brat.” Memories of the fire and the bombed car will take time to fade. “One that thanks the Lord for his mercies, but also one that has to get to work. Anybody know where I might find Max?”

  “I saw him wandering the halls earlier,” Marcie, our kitchen specialty host, says. “But that was hours ago. You’ll have to look for him. I think his SUV’s still in the lot.”

  Figures I’d have to hunt him down. “See ya!”

  I run into my dressing room, turn a blind eye to the mess still strewn where the vandal threw it, drop my purse—a beautiful new, plain-leather non-Coach one—on my desk, and walk back out. As I head down the hall, I hear a too-familiar craack coming from the direction of Mr. Magnificent’s dressing room.