Diamond Rings Are Deadly Things

by Rachelle J. Christensen

“Adri, are you okay?” Lorea hurried over to my desk. “You look pale.”

  “Those were—I made hundreds of them.” I looked at my hands. My purple glitter polish sparkled in the overhead light, another reminder of her. “Stayed up until three in the morning watching movies and sewing with Briette so we could finish.”

  Lorea sucked in a breath. “Oh, I had no idea. Let me get you some water.”

  I grasped Lorea’s hand. “I’m sorry—it shouldn’t matter. Natalie would love it.”

  “No way, Adri.” She shook her head and her dark hair brushed the nape of her neck. “There are lots of other ideas. In fact, I thought of one for the bridal shower invitations. Is there any way you could use a button on the card?” She released my hand and gave me a water bottle.

  I knew Lorea was changing the subject, but I was happy to push those memories back and focus on another aspect of the business that I loved—the bridal shower. I took a sip of the water Lorea offered me and forced a smile. “Can we use buttons on the card?” I winked. “Do you know who you’re talking to?”

  Lorea laughed and held up her pincushion. “Good. I think it’ll give them some personality.”

  “And everyone will know that Natalie’s best friend is throwing the party before they even open the invitation.”

  “Hey, girls.” Natalie walked through the door. It had only been forty minutes since Lorea phoned her. She carried an oversized purse that I knew contained several bridal magazines and notebooks. Hefting the purse, she waved one of the magazines at me. “Can you believe this farm girl is getting nervous about what those movie stars think?”

  “Whatever. You look like a movie star. Just worry about what Brock thinks,” I said.

  “She’s right. You’re gorgeous.” Lorea motioned for Natalie to follow her to the back of the shop. Brock had admitted he was initially drawn to Natalie for her tall and slender model-type build and clear blue eyes, but he fell in love with her kind and generous nature.

  Natalie swept back a loose curl of soft, brown hair, tucking it behind her ear. “My stomach is doing backflips, I’m so excited to see this dress.”

  “Right this way,” Lorea said. She led Natalie into the makeshift gown-fitting area we had set up in the back. The dress hung a few feet off the ground, trailing with layer upon layer of gorgeous frills.

  Natalie gasped and covered her mouth. I noted how her eyes sparkled as she stared at the dress. She dropped her purse and approached the gown with tentative steps. “Lorea, this is beautiful. Help me try it on.”

  Lorea and I laughed. I waited as Lorea helped Natalie into the dress and tugged on the invisible zipper sewn artfully into the snug bodice. I straightened the mirror and caught Natalie’s smile as she looked at herself.

  The dress was a size six and a bit on the short side for the bride’s long legs. Lorea could let out the hem and take in the bodice, but otherwise, it appeared to have been created for Natalie.

  “Oh, I love it.” She turned slowly, craning her neck to see each side of the gown.

  “I can do some alterations,” Lorea said. “And then it’ll be perfect for you.”

  “I know Brock will love it,” Natalie responded.

  “It does fit right in with the choices you two have made for the wedding.” I grabbed a clipboard and jotted down a few notes about how the materials in this dress would flow with the backdrop of the reception.

  “How much is it?” Natalie glanced at me and then at Lorea, who paused a moment before answering.

  “We were going to mark it for eleven thousand, but you can have it for nine.” The price hung in the air between us, and I remembered the discussions we’d had with Brock and his bride-to-be. He continually assured her that he wanted to pay for the wedding, and she kept reminding him that it was the bride’s responsibility. She selected simple, elegant designs to keep prices low and Brock didn’t mind, as long as he could foot the bill—and he had won that argument.

  “I don’t want you to give me a discount.” Natalie bit her lip. “I don’t know. It’s just so expensive.”

  “You’re right. It is,” Lorea said. “But you have to wear something you love on your wedding day. I know you don’t want Brock to help you pay for things—and I know it’s because people have accused you of being a gold digger, but honey, sometimes you just have to swallow your pride.”

  Natalie shook her head. “Good thing you’re my best friend, or I might think you were just trying to make a sale.”

  I suppressed a laugh as Lorea’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m trying to make a sale and help my friend have the most beautiful wedding possible.” She smoothed down one of the frills and grinned at Natalie. “Everyone knows the dress is the focal point.”

  “She’s right. If you’re going to splurge, do it on the dress.” I made myself a note to remind Brock that Natalie was hopelessly in love with him.

  Lorea began measuring, pinning, and writing down what needed to be done to the dress as Natalie smiled into the mirror. I showed her the fabric swatches, and she selected a chiffon lace, just as I had thought she would.

  “I’ll have some samples ready for you in a week.” I checked that off my list.

  “Are you bringing a date to my wedding, Adri?” Natalie asked with a teasing lilt to her voice.

  Lorea answered before I could. “Yes, and he’s taking her to the ice show this week.”

  I glared at Lorea, but Natalie’s face lit up. “To see Sasha Cohen? Brock’s taking me—we’re going to that fancy dinner at the lodge before the show, too. So, who is he?”

  My brows relaxed as Natalie’s contagious joy swept over me. “His name is Dallas Reynolds. I met him at the Roosevelt Grille. He’s very nice, but I don’t usually bring dates to the weddings I plan.”

  “Well, see if you can make an exception this time, won’t you?” Natalie asked. “Someone as talented as you should be planning her own wedding.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Thanks, Natalie, but I think your sentiments should be directed toward Lorea, don’t you?” With a wink in her direction, I hurried back to my computer to order the fabric Natalie had selected. I could hear Lorea grumbling about “too many romantics.” Natalie was right—someday I hoped to plan my own wedding. I just needed to find the right groom first.

  Chapter 4

  Guest Book Quilt

  Prepare or purchase 4-inch quilt squares and place on the wedding reception entry table. Invite each guest to share their love by signing a quilt square with a permanent fabric marker. Construct a quilt from the signed quilt squares and present it to the married couple as a special “guest book” that will be both useful and memorable.

  Courtesy of www.mashedpotatoesandcrafts.com

  “Ready to go home and veg?” I asked Lorea. The hands of the mantle clock were nearing the five. “We’ve worked too hard today.”

  Lorea pulled her bottom lip through her teeth. “With Sylvia’s new order for another bridesmaid’s dress, I won’t have time to finish this hem for Natalie, and I’d really like to get it done by next week.”

  “I can help. Why don’t I take it home and start undoing it for you?”

  “Would you?”

  “Sure. My hot date isn’t until tomorrow, remember?”

  “That’s true.” Lorea smirked. Then she reminded me how to handle the gown and the best method to take out the blind hem. “And no chocolate. Don’t let this gown get near your stash.”

  “Yes, sir.” I saluted.

  “See you in the morning, boss.”

  The lights hummed for a moment after I turned them off, and I hurried out to the parking lot behind Lorea. It took me less than ten minutes to drive home and kick off my black leather sandals.

  I didn’t run in the evenings very often, but I definitely needed an endorphin high after the barely contained dress disaster. I ate a light dinner of broiled salmon, broccoli, and rice and gave myself a few minutes to decompress. Thirty minutes later, I laced up my neon green running shoes and forced myself out
the door.

  For the past year, I’d been the one-date wonder, never getting close enough to open up my heart and spill my painful secrets. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for agreeing to go on a second date with Dallas, while at the same time wishing it wasn’t so hard. My natural fun-loving nature had been obscured by the tragedy in California.

  All that was behind me now. My wedding planning skills meshed with my thriving craft business. Fate had frowned on me last year, but she must have been smiling when she nudged me toward Sun Valley.

  The brisk mountain air raised goose bumps on my skin, and I shivered. It was late May, but the nights still cooled considerably, and the Sawtooth Mountains clung to the last remnants of winter snow. Breathing deeply, I paused, relishing the feel of the cooled oxygen in my lungs. Tension threaded my shoulders and I rolled them back, wincing when my right shoulder popped. The missing gown and the potential nightmare with the hole in Sylvia’s dress had definitely strained my nervous system. I could feel every stitch in my tired bones.

  After a few more stretches focusing on my high arches, I turned up the volume on my iPod and broke into a run. I was doing so much better now—not running away from everything, like before, but running toward a future filled with promise.

  The bike paths of the Sun Valley area were never lonely, and the paved trails topped my list of reasons to live there. With the ski slopes in view and the lush scent of evergreen forests filling my nose, it didn’t take long for my sluggish body to feel energized.

  As I neared the first mile of my run, I couldn’t help but wonder if I might see him again today. I chided myself. Several times in the past few weeks, I had sprinted past “the hottie,” as Lorea had named him. She had been teasing me mercilessly since I told her about my encounter with the sexy, sculpted runner. Denial was my best defense when Lorea asked me why I had been so diligent in my running lately, but I found myself looking for him more than I cared to admit.

  And there he was, rounding the next bend with his hat on backwards, chrome sunglasses reflecting the fading light. Maybe he was bald. I had never dared turn around and look for fear he might catch me looking at him, but I secretly hoped he used the hat to keep the sweat out of his eyes instead of to prevent sunburn on a shiny scalp. As he drew nearer and I watched his delts flexing in tandem with his six-pack abs, I decided baldness would be just fine.

  When I first mentioned him to Lorea, she said she might have to take up running, if only to stop me from making a fool of myself. Three or four runs a week was enough for me, but I wondered how many nights found him pounding the pavement. Bright yellow running shorts with a black racing stripe sans shirt revealed his muscular body. So hot. My heart sped up as the distance between us disappeared.

  I tried to suppress the goofy grin threatening to cross my face by reminding myself that my cheeks were flushed dark red and I hadn’t shaved my legs for two days. Who was I kidding? I was a sweaty mess. All the same, I couldn’t resist staring at those chrome sunglasses as he ran past, wondering what color his eyes might be.

  “Great night for a run,” he said between breaths.

  “Yeah, it is.” I lifted my fingers in a wave. Inside I screamed, He talked to me! You idiot! And all you could say is, yeah, it is? Oh well, he had initiated conversation. I couldn’t wait to tell Lorea.

  I wondered what the chances were that I might bump into him somewhere else in town but fully dressed. The Ketchum–Sun Valley area wasn’t a metropolis—the population was less than four thousand—so it could happen. Calm down, Adri.

  I thought about my own appearance. The large black sunglasses I wore covered one of my best features. People always commented on my dark brown eyes, remarking how they contrasted nicely with my honey blonde hair. My soft curls were hidden when I pulled my hair back into a ponytail. There was a chance he would recognize me, but could I pick him out of a lineup? I hoped so. I found myself smiling for the rest of my run.

  When I returned home and showered, my thoughts strayed to Dallas versus “the hottie.” It was nice to think of something besides wedding dresses, and I didn’t need to make a decision yet, especially since I’d only been asked out by one of the guys. All the same, it was fun to imagine possibilities. The pillow on my bed looked inviting, but I knew I needed to start picking out that hem. Instead of sleeping, I washed my hands thoroughly, gathered my seam ripper, and lifted Natalie’s heavy dress.

  Fingering the soft folds of the gown, I plopped onto my sofa and flicked through my DVR list until I found a bunch of Antiques Roadshow episodes I had recorded. I pushed play, donned a pair of white cotton gloves, and started the tedious job of picking out the blind hem sewn into the satin underlying the last frilled layer. Forty-five minutes later, I had made it more than halfway around the dress. I was pleased to see the extra fabric folded neatly into the hem for just such an alteration as Natalie needed. Smoothing out the folds, I measured about four inches with my fingers and was satisfied that Lorea would be able to include a beautiful hemline for Natalie’s tall figure.

  The seam ripper slipped on a stubborn stitch, and I jabbed myself in the palm of the hand. “Ouch!” I cried as the point broke through the material of my glove. I checked my hand for any sign of blood. That would be more than I could take right now—blood stains on a wedding gown. I wasn’t bleeding, so I put the glove back on and returned to the thick thread holding the hem in place. Scissors did the trick, and with a few snips the hem began to unroll again. As my fingers dug inside the hem to pull the stitching apart, they came in contact with something solid. I put my seam ripper down next to the scissors and examined the material with both hands.

  There was something hard in that portion of the material. Pressing the hemline, I squinted, trying to see what had gone wrong. The hem bulged with some kind of solid mass. I inserted the sharp tip of the seam ripper and cut through the thread holding the hem together. I worked faster trying to free it, wondering all the while if I had stumbled upon some seamstress’s secret.

  The wad of material came loose, and I pulled it out, feeling the hard bumps inside. At first, I thought it might be extra fabric, but it was something else. My chest tightened. The gown had come all the way from China—what if it was infested with cockroaches or something even worse? I shuddered and then commanded myself to stop being a wimp.

  A tiny slit with my scissors assured me that the roll of fabric was not filled with insects or vermin. Instead, hundreds of little rocks had been packed neatly inside the bundle. What in the world? The tube of material was only about six inches long. Why would anyone put rocks in a wedding dress? Was this some kind of ancient Chinese folklore or good luck charm?

  I took off my gloves and emptied a handful of the rocks into my hand. I studied them under the light, and a nervous feeling wound its way up my throat. The rocks were yellowish and brown and all about the size of pea gravel, but there was something about them that set a warning bell off in my head. Sucking in a breath, I lifted one of the stones and held it up to the light. It definitely wasn’t a rock. The light glinted off it, reminding me of crystal, but something told me that wasn’t it, either.

  Moving the wedding dress aside, I cupped my hand and carried the mysterious stones over to my computer desk. I had an idea of what I thought the stones might be—in my wildest imagination—but I felt a little foolish as I toggled my mouse. Using Google, I brought up an image of uncut diamonds and gasped. My hands shook and I clutched the stones tightly until they jabbed the soft skin of my palms.

  The images were of rough-looking stones with tints of yellow, brown, and mottled gray. Looking closely at the pictures, I could see that most resembled a rough caricature of the diamond shape, and I opened my hand to look at the stones again. Most of them had four distinct edges like a diamond. A few appeared more like a triangle, but none of them were round, like you might find in a collection of rocks or gravel. I shook my head—this couldn’t be happening.

  My breath came in short puffs as I hurried into the
kitchen and grabbed a Ziploc bag. I dumped the diamonds—if that’s what they were—inside, emptying them all from the fabric tube. As they cascaded on top of each other, the light glinted from the rough edges, and I reminded myself to be calm and think about what my brother Wes would do. I had seen him in stressful situations—his mind alert and his ability to make good decisions seemingly unhindered by anxiety, the same kind that was clouding mine at the moment.

  Would he call the police? No, not yet. If they weren’t real diamonds, the police would just laugh at me, and even worse they might take Natalie’s dress in for examination. I sucked in a breath—I couldn’t do that to her or to her exquisite gown.

  Maybe I could call Walter and have him look at the stones. A glance at the clock told me that option was also out. It was almost midnight. I’d have to use Google to help me figure out my problem. Typing in searches for checking the authenticity of diamonds brought up several pictures and pages of details. There was way more information than I could sift through in a night. I decided to try the easiest test first—scratching glass.

  According to the Internet, cubic zirconium or moissanite, types of man-made stones, could also cut glass, so that test wasn’t as reliable if you were trying to see how cheap your fiancé was before you said “I do.” But I already knew these rocks weren’t man-made diamonds, so I picked out one yellowish gold stone and walked over to my patio door.

  It took a second for my hand to stop shaking enough that I wouldn’t drop the gem. I located an area right near the handle that I thought might be inconspicuous. Pushing hard on the glass, I was rewarded with a tiny scraping noise. I continued pushing for about an inch, then traced the smooth cut I had just made in my glass window. I flicked on the large Mag flashlight I kept by the back door and shone into the blemish I’d created. It wasn’t just a surface scratch, like a rock might make—it was straight and deep.

  I returned the diamond to the bag and stared for a minute, estimating that my quart-sized Ziploc held nearly two hundred rough diamonds. And since rough diamonds usually come from Africa (according to Google), I wondered how they had made their way into a wedding dress from China. The only explanation I could come up with was that someone was smuggling diamonds in wedding gowns, and Lorea just happened to order the wrong dress. Or dresses.