A Steal of a Deal

by Ginny Aiken

  The door’s not fully closed. I go in. “Hey! We’re supposed to plan a show, not whack golf balls. Miss Mona’s gonna just love it if you blast out one of your fancy-schmancy soundproof windows.”

  His eyes bug out. “Andie? Is that really you?”

  I roll my eyes. “Who else would I be? Do I look like an alien life force who dropped down onto your poor banged-up head?”

  He touches his bandage. “That pain might not be so bad. I’m sure the alien wouldn’t have such a smart mouth.”

  “I’m not going there.”

  But neither is he going to work. Instead of joining me so we can check inventory, he drops another golf ball on his Astroturf putting thingamajig, fixated on his game.

  He does his foot-to-foot-to-foot pre-swing wiggle, taking his time to aim.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” I ask. “We have a show to plan. Not Tiger Woods to beat.”

  “You don’t know when to stop, do you?” he says, his words crisp and short, his tone controlled. “Give me a minute. I only have another two balls, and then I’ll go with you to the vault.”

  “Don’t you think that after all that’s happened, we might have a bunch of other things to do after we plan the show? You know—things to do, places to go, problems to solve? You lost your wallet too, so we both have to take care of that. Maybe we can hit the license bureau together—”

  WHAMMO! He lets loose with more oomph than he should have. The ball misses the contraption rigged up to simulate the hole in the green, but hits his desk with a sickening thud, leaves a dent in the wood, and then bounces back to roll to a stop at my feet.

  “Good work,” I murmur.

  “I’d like to see you do better, especially with a pest buzzing at your ears.”

  “I don’t have time for games.”

  He crosses his arms and gives me a head-to-toe stare. “I bet you can’t hit the ball if you try.”

  I slam my fists on my hips. “Is that a dare, Matthews?”

  “Take it any way you like, Andi-ana Jones.”

  Something tells me I’m asking for trouble, but I’ve yet to make myself let a dare go unchallenged. “Give me the stupid club. How hard can it be to hit a dumb ball with a steel stick so it plunks into a hole in the ground? Little kids play golf all the time. I’ve seen them when I drive by the course.”

  “Go for it. After all, it’s only child’s play.” He laughs. “But if you can’t hit the cup, then you owe me.”

  Whoa! That didn’t figure into my calculations. “What exactly do I owe you?”

  “A snipe-free work environment would suit me just fine.” I suck in a toe-deep hard breath. It’s not that I don’t want to pay up should I lose; it’s more a matter of whether I can control my tongue should he win.

  God? Are you behind Max’s dare? I never thought you’d use a dare to get a point across . . . and we both know I have major issues with my outta-control mouth.

  I’ve known God to use the oddest means to get my attention in the past. Gulp.

  That’s when Max seals my fate. He sticks his hands in his armpits, flaps his elbows, does a bent-knee waddle, and clucks. “Not up to the challenge, I see.”

  His superior tone and the outrageous chicken taunt are more than I can take. “Give me that club.”

  “Gladly.”

  Club in hand—it weighs a whole lot more than I expect it to—dread swirls into my gut. It’s not the swinging part or the hitting part that scares me. It’s the getting-the-ball-inthe-hole part that inspires sudden respect.

  But it’s too late to back off. “Here goes,” I say in my chirpiest, perkiest voice.

  I swing the thing back and forth a little, just to get an idea of how it works. Then, because I haven’t seen a golfer who doesn’t do the pre-whack wiggle, I step from one foot to the other a couple of times. Once I think I’ve got the hang of the club and the wiggle, I look at the hole ten feet away, at the ball, at the flat end of the metal stick, and back at the hole.

  Golf’s all about aim, I realize. And coordination. Aim, I think I can handle. Coordination should be a cinch; I’ve never been a klutz.

  So with a quick plea for heavenly help, I swing the club over my shoulder and haul off with all my strength.

  “NO!” Max yells. “That’s too hard—”

  Bing! Bing-bing-bing! Bing. Bing. Bing—whomp.

  To my horror, the ball, after ricocheting from every possible wall, ends its voyage with a spectacular death. It cracks right down the middle, and the two halves thump to the floor. I don’t dare look at the holes I’m sure I’ve put in Max’s dressing room walls. A couple of hours’ worth of puttying, sanding, and painting are in my future thanks to my pride.

  “I’m sorry, Max.”

  He looks ceiling-ward and shakes his head. Then he laughs. “No more snotty comments, okay? You lost. Fair and square.”

  I swallow. This isn’t going to be easy, Lord. I’m going to have to take the time to think before I open my mouth. Come to think of it, that’s what I’m supposed to do, isn’t it? Every time. Oh, help me, Father. I’m supposed to be an adult, after all . . .

  An adult who put a bunch of holes in a bunch of walls.

  Plus one busted golf ball. Time to clean up. Literally.

  I go pick up the ball, but before my hand makes contact with the rubber pieces, I catch sight of something wonderful. Something horrible. Something so unexpected, that I freeze.

  “Max?” I whisper.

  “What’s the matter now? Losing’s that hard for you?”

  “You’re not going to believe this. Come here.”

  When he reaches my side, I point.

  “What’s that?” He reaches for the foreign objects embedded in each half of the ball’s innards.

  “Don’t!” I grab his hand. “That is what it’s all been about.” His eyes meet mine. We stare at each other. His hand turns and clasps mine. He shakes his head.

  I nod.

  We both look down again, hold our breaths for a second . . . ten. Then, slowly but deliberately, he nods too. “That’s what it’s all about.”

  I squeeze his fingers then drop back to sit on my heels, my eyes never leaving the remains of the ball. The long breath I take doesn’t do much to calm my nerves, but I do know what we have to do.

  “Call the cops.”

  1600

  “Guilty!” I belt out the minute he hangs up. “I knew it. You’re the one.”

  “What?” he asks, confused. “Are you nuts? What are you talking about?”

  My heart cries, “No, no, no! He can’t be.” The evidence makes my head say . . . maybe? “That, Max Matthews, in case you choose to pretend you don’t know, is a pair of fifty-plus-carat sapphires, and since we were in Kashmir, then I’d say that’s where they’re from. That’s also your golf ball. True, it’s no longer much of a ball, split down the middle, but what you see is what you get.”

  He runs a hand through his hair. “That bomb that took out your car must have turned your brain into scrambled eggs. Do you think I’m that dumb? Do you seriously think I’d risk playing with a golf ball stuffed with world-class sapphires?”

  I’ve got to press him, see if guilt does make him crack— even though I hope he doesn’t. “Who knows? You could have mistaken it for an innocent ball. Then, when it cracked down the Kashmir-sapphire-in-the-golf-ball middle, you realized you goofed, and now want to backpedal for all you’re worth.”

  “You’re crazier than I thought.” He gusts out a breath. “I’m getting Miss Mona, your aunt, Allison, and Glory in here. They were all there, in Kashmir, for every minute of the trip, with us. They’ll vouch for me. I never had the time to stuff a ball with anything.”

  I cross my arms, tap my toe against the floor, and tamp down the fear. What if I am right? “Go ahead. Call them. The evidence speaks for itself. I’m waiting for the chief.”

  One call each, and Allison runs into the dressing room. “I’m here,” she gasps for breath. “What’s going on?”

/>   “Look,” I say, pointing to the ball. “There’s the cause of all our grief.”

  She looks from Max to me. “A golf ball? What’s up with that?”

  “That,” Max says, “is Andie having a breakdown. She took a whack at the ball with my golf club, broke it, and found sapphires stuck inside.”

  Allison drops to her knees. “Those dingy things are sapphires? No way! If they are, they’re the ugliest sapphires I’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s because they’re all smeared with glue,” I say. “And I’m not having a breakdown.” I point. “That, Allison, is Max’s golf ball.”

  “I know. He’s the only golfer—besides Tanya—around here. But how’d the sapphires get inside the ball?”

  I give them a smug smile. “That’s the multi-multimillion-dollar question, isn’t it?”

  Allison looks from my cohost to me. “Oh. I see what you mean. His ball, his . . . sapphires?”

  “Well, it’s his ball, but I suspect the sapphires belong to the government of Kashmir.”

  “The sapphires those men died for.”

  “Um-hmm . . .”

  Max looks scared—for the first time ever. “Where’s Miss Mona? Aunt Weeby? They won’t believe this garbage. They know me better than that. I didn’t have time to get involved in some kind of international smuggling ring while I was in Kashmir. They’ll vouch for me.”

  “They went junking.” Which might be for the best, since they’re both crazy about Max. “And you wouldn’t have had to get involved in international smuggling while you were in Kashmir. You would have done that here, before you set foot on a plane. Besides, I don’t know if I’d trust Aunt Weeby’s and Miss Mona’s judgment when it comes to you. Older women are known to fall for”—if he’s guilty, this’ll be the breaking point—“younger con men.”

  “I’m not a con man!”

  His indignation looks pretty real to me—thankfully.

  “Why’n’t you tell me all about that there con man bidness, son?” Chief Clark drawls, suspicion in his gaze. “What’s going on here? Why’d all y’all call this time?”

  “Look!” I point. “Remember how you and I agreed the fire, the break-ins, and the bomb were all about Kashmir? There’s the proof and the reason for everything that’s happened.”

  Chief Clark, guilty of a less than razor-sharp image, saunters over to the busted golf ball, goes down on one knee, stares, then scratches his chin. “You’ll have to excuse me, Miss Andie, but I can’t rightly say I understand. What’s a bad golf ball got to do with murder and all the rest?”

  Max squats down at the chief’s side. “Those things in the middle of the ball are—”

  “Those are sapphires,” I say. “Ridiculously big and valuable Kashmir sapphires.”

  The chief loosens his tie, then shakes his head. “If them ugly things are sapphires, then I sure as sure don’t get what all the trouble’s been for.”

  “The trouble’s been about the money these stones will bring when sold,” I say. “Trust me, they’re beautiful stones. What you see is the glue the thieves used to hold the two halves together with the stones inside. That much glue is overkill. It spread all over the stones. That’s what makes them look so bad. Once they’re cleaned up . . .”

  He shakes his head. “I’m going to have to take your word for it, ’cause I’m not seeing no beautiful stones. All’s I’m seeing is some dirty lumps in there. And you’re saying Mr. Matthews here put them sapphire rocks in the ball?” He swings to stare at Max.

  I glance at my cohost, wince at the anger in his expression. I’m coming to the certainty that he’s innocent, but I have to know the truth, and he did have control of the contraband. “I don’t know for sure if he put them inside the ball or if he just picked up the ball to smuggle the sapphires out of Kashmir.”

  Allison comes over for a closer look. After she’s stared at the remains of the golf ball, she says, “You know? I don’t think Max is responsible for this. Wouldn’t it have been just as easy for someone to slip the ‘fixed’ ball into his gear? So that someone here in the U.S. could pick them up—you know, like in a movie. Max didn’t exactly hide his sports stuff during the trip.”

  “That,” Max says, his voice bright with relief, “is what happened. It’s obvious.”

  Chief Clark shakes his head. “Not to me, it ain’t so obvious.”

  Impatience flashes across Max’s face, but I have to give him credit. He smothers it right away.

  He answers in a controlled voice. “The native guide who was murdered spent hours asking me about football and golf and a whole lot of other American stuff—you know, McDonald’s and Wal-Mart. Well, those two, he asked Andie, but he wanted to know everything I could tell him about sports. I taught him to toss a football and loaned him my club and balls. It’s not as if I kept my gear in hand every minute I spent in Kashmir.”

  The chief scratches his chin. “So you’re telling me you made friends with a man who was killed because of them sapphires.” He shakes his head. “I can see where Miss Andie’s coming from.”

  Max clenches his fists. “You have to know that the man only came over to me after ‘Miss Andie’ sent him. He started out asking her his questions—he had a huge crush on her—and she got tired of answering. That’s how I wound up as the guy’s expert on all things American.”

  “So he liked her and he liked your toys,” Chief Clark says. “I don’t see no sapphires in that picture.”

  Mr. Magnificent glares at me. “Maybe Andie’s the one who wanted the sapphires. She collects gemstones, you know. Maybe she and the guy agreed to stash the stones in my things so she could get them here without being the one to smuggle them out.”

  Huh? “But—”

  “Yes, Miss Andie.” The chief swings toward me. “How ’bout that? You’ve been the target of all the trouble what’s followed you here from that there Kashmir place, more’n Mr. Matthews. Maybe all your smuggler friends want to take you out so’s they can keep the dough they get from them stones for themselves.”

  I snort. “Oh, right. I want the stones, but I call you the minute they show up, right? Like you like me all that much, and believe every word I say. Wouldn’t I have—oh, I don’t know— conked Max with his club and run off with the stones?”

  Max slaps his thighs and laughs. “There you have it, Andie. Wouldn’t I have conked you with the club and run off with the stones? Your logic just fell apart.”

  “I would never hit you with a golf club.”

  “And I’d hit you?” he asks. “Don’t you think I’d have bopped you with a club before this if I were going to do it at all? You’ve done nothing but shovel grief my way since I walked into this place. Of course, I’m innocent. You just proved it.”

  Allison heads for the door. “I’m done. I wish you two would quit arguing. It’s boring and it doesn’t help. I don’t think either one of you has the sense to steal the stones in the first place, much less become smugglers—successful ones. You’re too busy thinking up ways to outdo each other.”

  The chief pulls a plastic bag from his pocket, grabs the golf-ball halves, and stands. He sighs. “I hafta agree with her. You’re both too busy bashing each other to have the brainpower left to think something like this out. I’m thinking you’re neither one of ya guilty. Ya don’t have the sense of a flea on a dog’s behind.”

  He leaves.

  Max and I hem and haw, and a few seconds later, I clear my throat. “You . . . ah . . . and Chief Clark might have a point. Since I didn’t do it, and I didn’t try to snuff you out, and you didn’t try to snuff me out when you had me all alone in your office . . .”

  To my surprise, he laughs. “Don’t ever let anyone accuse you of being logical. You’re seriously lacking in that department.”

  “Hey! I thought you wanted a snipe-free work environment.”

  He crosses his arms. “I believe the agreement was for you to watch your mouth. There was nothing about me and mine.”

  “Oh, now that
’s a noble attitude. Hogtie my mouth, and give yours free rein.”

  His smile spreads from ear to ear.

  Easy, Andie, easy. He’s been on the receiving end for a long time. “That’s sooooo mature, Matthews. But I will rise above it all. I will focus on what really matters. Who smuggled those sapphires to the S.T.U.D.?”

  “It wasn’t me, and I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt, so I’ll say it wasn’t you.”

  “You know it wasn’t Miss Mona or Aunt Weeby, either.”

  “You didn’t have to say it.” He laughs. “Who’d ever imagine them as international thieves?”

  We both laugh—surprise, surprise!

  He goes on. “There’s nothing to suggest Allison had anything to do with it, and the same goes for Glory. She hasn’t even been around. She’d scheduled her vacation before we left, and she’s only come by the studio to drop off the film— that got stolen. I can’t see anyone smuggling a fortune in jewels and then dumping them.”

  I shrug. “That makes about as much sense as suspecting me.”

  “Agreed.” He taps his fingers on the top of his desk. “So where do we go from here? Who slipped the ball into my gear? Who had the opportunity? And who would have a chance to pick up the goods on this end?”

  Thoughts buzz through my head. “If we do the TV-cop thing and check out means and opportunity, then we do have some other possible culprits.”

  “Who?”

  “I know it’s a little far-fetched, but the Russells went everywhere we did during the whole trip. And you heard Delia, her mother, and grandmother. They all want sapphires.”

  “True.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Which one do you think might have done it?”

  I study my cuticles. “Truthfully? None of them.”

  He sighs. “So why’d you bring them up?”

  “Because it doesn’t matter whether I think they did it. What matters is whether they did or not.”

  “And how do you plan to find out? Do you even know where they live? Is there any way they can pick up the stones here? Or are you saying they have a connection with someone who could?”