Blood Rubies

by Jane K. Cleland

He sounded old.

  “I’m Josie Prescott. I placed the ad about the Fabergé egg snow globe. Do you have a few minutes to chat?”

  “Glad to. What can I tell you?”

  “When did you make it?”

  “Last month sometime.” He made a hoarse sound, maybe a laugh, kind of a snort. Hawn. “Now that I’m retired, I don’t keep work records. Never going to again, and that’s the truth.”

  “I don’t need work records, so that’s not a problem. Who was your client?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “References.”

  “I can give you plenty of solid references. Some going back sixty years. That’s right, young lady. I’m seventy-eight now, and I’ve been working with metal since the war. The big one.”

  “That’s great. Thanks. Have you been doing jewelry work that long, too?”

  He made another hawn sound. “No, ma’am. That’s only been fifteen years, since I retired.”

  “Fifteen years is a good amount of time.”

  “You liked my work, did you?”

  “I had the sense you had to hurry some.”

  Hawn. “You got that right, young lady. That customer was going hell to leather. Didn’t give me time for nothing beyond the minimum. I wasn’t happy with that and I wasn’t happy with what I did, but he said it was good enough, and here you are asking for another one, so I guess he was right.”

  “Where are you located?”

  “Cleveland? You?”

  “New Hampshire.”

  “Never been there.”

  Ellis flipped an index card toward me, using the same wrist-snapping move Jimmy used with cocktail napkins in the Blue Dolphin’s lounge. I was so intent on my conversation with Kovak, I hadn’t noticed him writing. The note read, “How did they meet?”

  I read Ellis’s question, then repeated it aloud. “Did this guy find you through an ad, too?”

  “That’s right. My son-in-law found his posting on an industry forum, same place he found yours.”

  “Which one?”

  “With all respect, ma’am, you seem more interested in my client than in my work.”

  “Sorry, I’m just naturally curious.” Ellis spun another card toward me. This one read, “Say you have an urgent call you need to take and ask to call him back.”

  I looked at Ellis. He shot his index finger at my chest. Do it, his manner stated. Do it now.

  “Mr. Kovak, I apologize. There’s a call I have to take. It’s urgent. May I call you back?”

  “Run that by me again?”

  “May I call you back?”

  “What’s this about, young lady? I may be old, but I’m not stupid. Something fishy is going on.”

  “I promise it isn’t. I’ll call you back.”

  “Maybe I’ll take your call, and maybe I won’t.” He hung up.

  I replaced the receiver gently. “Well, that went well, don’t you think?”

  “I’m going to call the Cleveland police and ask them to bring him in and set up a Skype call. I need to see his eyes. I’ll let you know the time. I hate to ask you to keep running back and forth like I am, but I need you.”

  “You know the way to my heart—tell me I’m needed.”

  Ellis leaned back and smiled. “Good to know.”

  “Any news on the flash drive?”

  “Not yet. They tell me these things can’t be hurried.”

  I stood up. “I’m not a patient person.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.”

  I eyed him warily. “What’s another?”

  “You approach life with a strong sense of urgency.”

  I smiled. “One person’s impatience is another person’s urgent need.”

  He smiled and joined me at the door. “I’ll call you when I have information about Skyping with Kovak.”

  * * *

  Ana was chatting with Cara when I got back to my office.

  “Real ginger?” Ana said. “I’ve never heard of that.”

  “Oh, yes, dear. Shave off a little bit and mince it. Sauté it in a tablespoon of olive oil and add it to the marinade.”

  “Can I use ginger powder?”

  Cara smiled sweetly. “No.”

  “Ana,” I said. “I’m so glad to see you. How are you doing?”

  Ana turned and smiled. She was wearing a red cashmere turtleneck tunic cinched by a thick black leather belt with a large silver buckle, an above-the-knee black leather skirt, and ankle-high black leather boots with three-inch heels. Two rows of silver-colored spikes circled the back of each boot. Her hair was swept into a high ponytail.

  “Honestly?” she said. “I’m reeling. Do you have a sec?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Just let me check in.” I turned to my staff. “Talk to me.”

  “I’m updating the database,” Cara said. “More than fifty people signed up for our newsletter at this week’s tag sale.”

  “Nice!” I said.

  Fred pushed up his glasses. “I’m working on the cane, doing a physical analysis first.”

  “Good.”

  “I’m working with Eric,” Gretchen said, “to put together a will-call list of temps for Cara. I want to make it as easy as possible for her while I’m on maternity leave.”

  “Smart idea.”

  Sasha smiled and glanced at Ana, then back at me. “I’m writing up a conversation I just had with one of the curators at the State Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg about Ana’s skating snow globe.”

  “In Florida?” Ana asked, perplexed.

  “In Russia.”

  Her eyes opened wide. “Oh.” She smiled, a teasing one. “Can you tell me any early news?”

  Sasha smiled again. “No … sorry. Appraising beautiful antiques takes time.”

  I gave Sasha a thumbs-up, then repeated the gesture for each of them in turn. “Thanks, everyone. Ana and I will be upstairs.”

  “Would either of you like something to drink?” Cara offered.

  We both declined, and I led the way into the warehouse. We walked across the concrete floor, our footsteps loud in the cavernous space. Upstairs, Ana sat on one of my guest chairs and sighed. I tried to picture her in a brown wig and a big furry hat buying cell phones, but couldn’t.

  “I hired professional cleaners to deal with the mess in my house,” she said, shuddering. “They worked around the clock with toothbrushes to get all the blood and so on out of every crevice. Just horrific.” She wrapped her arms around her torso. “Then they sterilized everything.”

  I tried to think of something to say, something neutral, something polite. My dad taught me that the trick to diplomacy, an important business skill, is to talk about process, not content. After a moment, I said, “I once read that a return to normalcy is an important milestone in recovering from a traumatic shock.”

  “I can see that.” She inhaled. “Dad and I are moving back in on Wednesday. Peter has gone back to Boston. He said he ran out of vacation time.”

  “You don’t think that’s true?”

  “It may be true, but I think he went back to be with Heather.”

  “Be with? As in, Heather is seeing him?”

  Ana shook her head. “No. Be with as in, keeping track of. That’s Peter’s normalcy.”

  “That sounds like stalking.”

  “To Peter, it sounds like care.”

  “What a situation.”

  Ana sighed. “Dad’s not doing well, either. He was seeing a woman, and she left him.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” I wondered if Ana would confide in me that the woman he’d been seeing was married.

  “He’s haunting the library, spending all his time reading those stupid investment papers and telling me what I’m doing wrong with my business. Peter’s sarcastic. Dad is critical. No wonder I want to spend my time with Ray.” She sighed again. “I can’t believe that in the midst of such angst I feel like celebrating, but I do.” She smiled radiantly. “I just got some good news. It’s why I stopped
by, actually. Timothy says the network remains excited about my show, can you believe it? They watched the parts we taped and loved it. We need to start filming again. They loved you, too.”

  “Me?” I asked, astonished. I felt as if I’d had two left feet walking up the driveway and barely knew the language talking to Ana.

  “It’s true. Timothy is more than happy with your performance. They’re not going to use the footage of Heather and Jason, of course, which means we need another celebration.” She took in a deep breath. “They’re looking for a little schmaltz, to tell you the truth. What would you think of our filming Gretchen’s baby shower? Timothy wants to catch her expression when she first sees the cake, then film a few people tasting it. You know the sort of thing they have in mind. You know Gretchen. Would she hate that idea?”

  I laughed a little, then laughed harder. “This is right up her alley. She’s completely starstruck. She’d love it. And her husband, Jack, will go along with the idea because (a) he’s a good sport and (b) he loves making Gretchen happy.”

  Ana exhaled loudly and sank back against the cushion. “What a relief. I didn’t know what we’d do if you thought it was a bad idea. Lots of people would find it offensively intrusive.”

  “Luckily, Gretchen isn’t one of them.”

  “And the timing is perfect. Timothy wants to resume filming on Wednesday, including a shot of you approving the cake.”

  “The shower isn’t until Sunday, so the cake will spoil.”

  “It’s called poetic license. We’ll make a new cake for the shower.”

  “You’ve thought of everything.”

  Ana smiled. “We share a methodical approach to life, you and I. I bet you’re all organized for it—am I right?”

  “Almost. I want to send an e-mail to everyone reminding them that it’s a surprise. I guess I’ll call the restaurant, too, to confirm the arrangements. Everything else is done.”

  “I knew it! Let me know if I can help with anything.” She smiled and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her thighs. “Guess what I’ve done in my new role as the Blue Dolphin’s executive pastry chef.”

  “Fired the entire staff?”

  Ana laughed. “No. Rehired Maurice.”

  My mouth fell open. “He agreed to come back?”

  “With only one condition—my pastry chef who’ll be in his kitchen baking my cakes reports to him. He promised to do nothing to upset her or undermine my business. I promised to let him keep the title of executive pastry chef and leave him to rule the rest of the pastry team as he sees fit, unless, of course, it threatens my business.”

  “You negotiated a truce.”

  “A tentative truce, let’s call it. I couldn’t believe it either, but I had to do something. It became clear within a day that we needed him—or someone like him. Hard as it is to believe, some people prefer Maurice’s desserts to mine. His peppermint twist, his chocolate tower, and his vanilla crème brûlée, for instance, are big sellers. I have no interest in creating a new menu or trying to replicate his recipes. He and I hammered out a deal privately, then I told Suzanne about it.”

  “I’m bedazzled. You ought to be secretary of state.”

  Ana waved it away. “Hardly. I’m just practical. The best way to deal with a bully is to befriend him. It doesn’t always work, but when it does, it works well.”

  “How’s Ray handling it?”

  “With pride. I got his input before I approached Maurice, so he’s taking credit for it all.”

  I started to laugh, but something in her tone and expression stopped me. There’d been no hint of laughter in her voice. Her eyes were flat. She wasn’t joking. She was reporting. “That could be annoying.”

  She shrugged. “To some people, sure. I don’t care who gets the credit. All that matters to me is that my ultimate goal gets reached.”

  “What does his attitude do to your personal relationship, though?”

  She smiled. “Nothing.”

  I stood up. “You’re a better woman than I.”

  She laughed. “Or a more foolish one.” She stood up. “I’ll call you later, if that’s all right, once I know what time Timothy wants you on the set on Wednesday.”

  “Of course. Or e-mail, whatever is easiest for you.”

  “I’m not going to ask for news about my egg.”

  “I wish I had some to pass along.”

  “But you’re still hopeful?” she asked.

  “I am,” I said, meaning it.

  I walked her out, thinking that Ana had a definite Machiavellian streak in her. Good to know, I thought. As I waved good-bye, I found myself wondering just how good an actress she was. Maybe her calm, poised demeanor in front of the camera wasn’t a reflection of who she was. Perhaps it was an act. Possibly her frank and open conversation with me was an act, too, a masterful performance staged to impress an audience of one—me.

  * * *

  I ran back upstairs to send the shower reminder, then called Jack. He reacted as expected—he was personally embarrassed, but on Gretchen’s behalf, he was tickled pink. Ty called as I was hanging up to tell me he needed to stay overnight in Newport, close to the Canadian border; the training had uncovered some glitches, and he needed to meet with the team in the morning.

  “I’ll miss you,” he said.

  “Me, too. Maybe I’ll call Zoë and see if she’s around.”

  “If she’s baked anything good, save me a piece.”

  I laughed. “Will do.”

  Zoë was home and planned to stay in all evening. I invited myself for dessert, and she eagerly started brainstorming what she should bake. I requested my favorite, Boston cream pie.

  Downstairs, I fluffed the new pillow that Gretchen had made for Hank. She wanted his basket to be more cushy.

  Cara’s voice crackled over the PA system. “Josie, Chief Hunter on line one.”

  I ran for the phone.

  “The police have brought Mr. Kovak to the station and are explaining Skype to him as we speak.”

  “When they’re done, can they explain it to me?”

  “I spoke to him briefly,” he said, ignoring my joke. “He’s eager to help. Can you come now?”

  “I’m on my way.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  As soon as Mr. Kovak saw me on the police computer monitor, he chastised me. “You didn’t need to try a sneak attack, young lady. I’m a good citizen. All you had to do is ask.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Me, too,” Ellis added.

  “All this drama.”

  Ellis stared at the camera, his expression sober. “It’s a serious situation, sir. We appreciate your cooperation.”

  “Glad to help. That’s my point.”

  “Thank you. What can you tell us about your customer?”

  Ralph Kovak looked his seventy-eight years. His face was deeply wrinkled, his hair blond-white, his blue eyes a little runny. Ellis and I sat side by side behind his desk, centered in front of his computer’s built-in camera. Mr. Kovak sat in a standard-issue police office. A row of taupe metal four-drawer file cabinets was visible behind him. The walls were painted ivory and unadorned.

  “Not much. What do you want to know?”

  “His name.”

  “Didn’t get it. I asked when he first called, and he just ignored my question.”

  “And you were okay with that?” Ellis asked, his tone curious, not confrontational.

  “Hell, yes. It was a cash transaction, so I didn’t care like I would if someone was going to be writing me a check.”

  “Do you have any security cameras installed?”

  “No.”

  “We checked the neighborhood,” one of the Cleveland police officers said, leaning into the frame so we could see who was speaking. He was young with lots of freckles and dark brown hair. “It’s easy to get from the interstate into Mr. Kovak’s neighborhood without passing a bank or other building likely to have security cameras.”

  “Thanks,” E
llis said. The police officer backed away, and Ellis added, “What did he look like?”

  Kovak scratched his cheek, then rubbed his nose. “I don’t remember much beyond the Fabergé egg. You ever seen one close up?”

  “No.”

  “How about you, young lady?”

  “No. I bet it’s something.”

  “It’s like something I’ve never seen and don’t expect to see again. The workmanship … the craft and techniques they used.” He shook his head, remembering. “I wasn’t looking at the man. I was looking at the egg.”

  “Understood,” Ellis said. “Just one person came to your location, is that correct?”

  “Right.”

  “A man?”

  “Yup. He wore sunglasses, a leather jacket, a bomber jacket, they’re called, and a cowboy hat. I liked that hat. Made him look like a real cowboy. Brown leather. Wide brim. Orange and blue pattern on the hatband. A dark blue feather. I asked about that hat, but he didn’t tell me squat.”

  “Great,” Ellis said, taking notes. “Was he white?”

  “Yup. About six feet. I’m six-two, and he was a few inches shorter. I used to be six-three, but I’ve shrunk some.”

  “Did he have an accent?”

  “Not to my ear.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Younger than me.” Hawn. “Which isn’t saying much because at this point, pretty much everyone is younger than me. I’m not good at gauging people’s ages. At a guess, he’s about my son-in-law’s age. Forty. Maybe older. Maybe younger. Somewhere in there.”

  “Eye color?”

  “No idea.”

  “How about tattoos?”

  “Not that I noticed. No scars, neither. Or moles or anything that I noticed. He was just a guy offering me one hell of a job.”

  “How many times did you see him?” Ellis asked.

  “Twice. Once when he brought the egg for me to measure and so on. Once when he picked it up. When he picked it up, he made me remove both domes so he could compare the original egg directly with the replica. Made me mad. If he knew he was going to want to look at them so careful like, he should have told me before I put the domes on! He gave me double the work, but he didn’t double the pay, oh, no.” Hawn. “Served him right when the oil spilled all over and splashed some on the floor. Got on his pants and shoes, too. He told me not to worry about it, saying it was nothing. It wasn’t nothing to me. Did he clean it up? Heck, no. He didn’t even offer. I didn’t have any extra oil, either. He was in a hurry, lucky for me, so he didn’t make a big deal out of it, said filling them both with glycerin was fine.”