by Elle Casey
The ice cream is too tempting. Digging in, I relish the perfect flavor-mixture of chocolate, whipped cream, marshmallows, and nuts. Talk about sex in a glass…
“Sorry ‘bout that,” Larry says when he comes back, grabbing his ice cream and plopping down on the couch next to me. He picks up the remote from his side table and aims it at the television. “She gets all freaked out when she hears voices. Says she can’t tell if they’re out here in the family room or in her head.”
He’s staring at the TV screen, pretending like he didn’t just reveal the fact that he’s taking care of a loonybird named Nona.
“Thanks for the sundae, Larry.” I chew slowly on my frozen marshmallows and chocolate chips, watching him. He’s not nearly as gross-looking when I have ice cream in my hands. That’s not to say that he’s handsome, but he does have a certain …charm to him. Kind of like sloths or Snuffleupagus.
“Yeah, sure, no prob.” He still isn’t looking at me. Apparently, the antiques road show is an enthralling program not to be missed.
“I’m sorry I’ve been mean to you,” I say, the load of my guilt almost to the point of exploding out of me. Bad karma. I totally deserve it. No wonder I stepped on that stupid ring.
He stops watching the show, but keeps his head down as he picks out his next bite. “You’re not mean. You’re just feisty.”
I smile at that. I don’t mind being called feisty.
“I like feisty women.”
Cringe. “Larry, I don’t mean to be mean, but I’m not ever going to go out with you.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. I get it. I’m too much man for ya. You prefer those wispy guys. The guys with wet spaghetti for arms.”
I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughing. “Yep. That’s what I like, all right. Pasta arms.”
He puts his legs up on the table and folds them at the ankles. “Well, if you evah feel like going out with a real man, you just let me know, a’ight?”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll look you up.”
The screechy voice comes from the back room again. “Get your feet off the coffee table, Larry!”
Larry gets a panicked look on his face and quickly drops his feet to the floor.
I burst out laughing. This is the best sundae I’ve ever had. Ever.
Chapter Twelve
I THOUGHT COMING BACK TO the jewelry store would be easy. I mean, I pretty much know the guy who owns the place. But nope. It’s not easy. It’s freaking me out. I’ve come all the way over here on my day off and before I walk through the door I’m ready to take off in the opposite direction. Hello, hives. Where have you been? Oh, yes, sure, settle right into my armpit there. That’ll be fine. Not at all.
Mr. Goldman sees me through the glass and waves, standing up off his stool to come greet me.
Dammit. The choice has been taken out of my hands. I push on the glass door and walk through, inhaling the mildewy scent and reminding myself that I’m not doing anything wrong.
It doesn’t really help, though. I feel very guilty for some reason.
“Good afternoon,” he says, glancing at his watch.
“Yeah, sorry about being late. I … uh … fell on the tracks. Of the subway. That’s why I’m late.”
Oh, God. It’s happening again. The panic-lies are coming.
He lifts a brow. “That’s terrible.” He glances down at my legs. “Are you all right?”
The worry in his voice makes me feel terrible. I try to wave off his concern. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Luckily one of New York’s finest was there, and he jumped down and saved me. About ten people lifted us both up onto the platform and everyone cheered. It was really nice, actually.” I could totally picture it — people happy that lives had been saved, that we’d all pulled together as New Yorkers and helped one of our own. I smiled briefly at the crystal-clear yet totally bogus image I’d concocted in my brain. I’m probably going insane. That would explain a lot.
“I’ll be seeing it on the news tonight, I suppose.”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “There were no cameras of any kind. No phones or anything. Everyone was too busy helping or cheering.”
What are the chances of that happening, of people in New York City not filming someone almost dying instead of actually helping? Zero. One in a billion, maybe. But I’m prepared to go all the way with this lie because it’s way better than dealing with the real reason I’m here.
That damn ring — karma’s ass-kicking delivered in the form of a half-million bucks I can’t have. I must have been really bad my whole life to deserve this special kind of torture.
“That’s astounding.” He moves over to his desk and shuffles through some papers. “I’m glad you made it through okay.”
“Yeah, me too.” I move closer, hoping he’ll help me change the subject. “So, did you find any information about the ring?”
“I did. I’m just looking for the paper I wrote it on.”
His organizational skills look worse than Belinda’s, but he surprises me by slipping a yellow sheet of legal paper out of a pile and holding it up with a smile. “Here it is.”
He walks over slowly to the counter and stands opposite me. “I did a little digging, made a few phone calls, and came up with this.” He puts the paper down on the glass case and slides it closer to me. When he’s done pushing the paper, he turns on a small lamp that’s sitting nearby. “Can you read my writing? It’s not the best. Ever since my RA kicked in, it’s been difficult. My penmanship teacher is rolling over in her grave.”
I nod, not sure I know what he’s talking about. His writing is crap, though, that’s no joke. I point to the paper. “Does this say Harper’s?”
He squints at it and then turns the paper to face him. “No, actually it says Cartier. Fifth Avenue.”
I can barely swallow, my throat is suddenly so dry. “Cartier? The jeweler Cartier?” Oh my god. It’s right next to the damn fountain. Did the woman throw the ring in right after her boyfriend bought it? Why wouldn’t she just bring it back to the store? Who is she? The stupidest woman alive? She must be.
He looks up at me, confused. “I’m sorry … I don’t follow.”
I wave my hand around, maybe to try and dissipate the fog that has gathered around my brain. “I’m just messing with you. Of course you mean Cartier the jeweler on Fifth Avenue, just the most expensive jeweler in the entire world.”
“Some would argue that title goes to Harry Winston.”
I laugh really loudly, kind of barking it out like a hyena. “Really? More expensive than Cartier?”
“I suppose it depends on the piece. But Harry Winston has the Hope Diamond right now.”
For the life of me, I cannot get my voice to go above a whisper. “I’m not carrying the Hope Diamond around, am I?”
The old man smiles and then chuckles. “No, no, no. The Hope Diamond is over forty-five carats and it’s blue.”
“Oh. That’s like … a lot bigger than mine. Than my Mom’s, I mean.”
He winks at me. “Yes. Your mother’s ring is much smaller. But it’s not small by any means.”
I can finally breathe and talk properly again. A quick scratch at my armpit has my hive satisfied for the time being. “Yes, you’re right. It’s too damn big. I hate having it.”
“Are you going to Cartier?” he asks me.
“Yes. Maybe.” Imagining myself going into that store instead of just drooling outside the windows makes me break out in more hives, this time between my boobs. Nice. Love it when they go there.
“Well if you do, you can ask to speak with Wendy. She was a colleague of mine once, and I’m sure she’d be happy to help you.”
“Wendy? Okay, great. Thanks.” I reach into my purse. “How much do I owe you?”
“Owe me?”
I look up at his confused tone. “For the work you did for me.” I’m praying feverishly in my head that he’ll say five bucks, because that’s about all I hav
e. Honestly, I don’t even have that much. Visions of Larry with his fat, harry hand out float in my mind.
“No charge. Just come see me when you’re ready for a pretty emerald to match those eyes.”
My shoulders slump down, and I want to cry over how nice he is. “I could totally hug you right now.”
He waves his hand and nods at me. “It was my pleasure. I don’t often get my hands on stones that big anymore. It was fun playing detective for a little while.”
I back toward the door, holding my bag tightly against me. It presses into my side and makes the ring wrapped in tissue cut into my boob a little, but I don’t care. Today is a great day. “Bye, Mr. Goldman. I appreciate your help.”
His eyes lock on something behind me and he says nothing in response.
Before I can look at what has his attention, the door flies open behind me, making the bell on it smash against the glass.
Mr. Goldman’s eyes go a little wide.
I turn around to see who’s being so rude and then lose my balance when whoever it is shoves me to the ground, ripping my bag out of my hands. My arm is yanked to the side, and it feels like my shoulder is practically dislocated from the force of it.
“What the …!”
That’s all I get out of my mouth before the asshole is gone and I’m left there on the floor, everything I own worth anything stolen from me. Rent money, dead useless cell phone, maxed-out credit card, driver’s license, apartment keys … everything is gone in the wind. I can hear the running footsteps of the thief fading out as they disappear in the distance.
That fucking ring. Oh my god, I have to get rid of it before I get hit by a bus!
I cup my hands over my boobs just in case the thief decides to come back and steal my bra and the ring inside it too. I fear if I don’t find the owner of this thing soon, karma is going to put me in a grave somewhere.
Chapter Thirteen
I TRUDGE UP THE STAIRS, and Larry’s door opens after I pass by it.
“I need the rent, Leah,” he says at my back. “It ain’t no joke no more.”
“I know, Larry.” I can’t look at him, so I just keep walking up, one step at a time. “Except that I just got fucking robbed, so it’s going to take me even longer than before.”
“You got robbed? You serious? Or’re you just saying that to delay paying your rent again?”
I have cried all the tears I can possibly spare on the subway on my ride back home. All I have now is extreme fatigue. “I’m not lying. I have a copy of the police report in my bra.”
“Why is it in your bra?” he shouts up the stairwell.
“Because the fucker stole my purse and I don’t have any pockets!”
When I reach my door I remember that fucker also took my keys.
“Larry!”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t have a key anymore.” I was wrong when I thought before that I didn’t have any tears left.
“I’ll be right up. Don’t go anywhere.”
I lean my back on the door and wait, staring at the ceiling, willing my pain to go away. I will not sob. I might let a couple tears fall out, but I won’t break down. I will not waste another single second on the lowlife scum who stole my stuff from me. Karma would be so proud. I must be earning some points somewhere. Please let that be happening.
Larry comes pounding up the stairs and arrives breathless in a black track suit. “Got ya a spare right here. You can keep it.” He unlocks my door for me and hands it over.
I pat him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Larry. You’re a stand-up guy.”
“Yeah, I am.” He points at my face. “Better than a guy with pasta-arms.”
I laugh, pushing him away as I turn to go inside. “Whatever. Good night.”
“You want some ice cream?”
“No. I’m too fat to eat ice cream every day.”
“Are you crazy? You ain’t fat. You wanna see fat, you should come meet my Nona.”
He immediately stops talking and looks over his shoulder.
I laugh when he turns back around and I catch the look on his face.
“Did she hear you?”
He shakes his head ruefully. “You have no idea. She has ears like a friggin’ elephant or somethin’.”
“Goodnight, Larry.”
He smiles, revealing two front teeth that cross over each other a little, something I never noticed before about him. Kinda cute. “Goodnight, dollface.”
I pause halfway through closing the door on him. “Did you just call me dollface?”
“Yeah. I saw it in a movie once.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Okay. I’ll catch ya later, uhhh, Leah. When d’ya think you’ll have the rent money?”
I close the door gently in his face and go straight to bed-couch, proud of myself that I didn’t yell at him or burst into tears. I fall asleep with my clothes on and the ring still in my bra.
Chapter Fourteen
I WAKE UP ON FRIDAY morning with renewed energy. I think the new essential oils Belinda gave me are helping. She was wrong when she said they were crap and probably wouldn’t work.
Wearing my nicest outfit that has pockets, the gypsy skirt I wore the other day with a hidden compartment in the waistband, I leave the apartment. I have the ring in my bra and my key in my skirt. Since I’m working later in the afternoon today, I have the morning to play detective.
Cartier is several stops from my apartment, and it takes me almost an hour to get there with the morning commuter traffic jamming the subway and the streets. I look at every punk in the subway car around me with a critical eye, wondering if he’s the one who jumped me and took my stuff. I’m totally ready to karate chop him in the nuts.
I’m not too worried that the thief will come for me at my apartment, since Larry promised me he’d check out every person who walks in the front door of our building, but still … I’ve heard stories about bad guys becoming stalkers and continuing to steal from the same person over and over again after learning their addresses from their driver’s licenses. I set a few traps in my apartment, just in case.
As I approach Cartier, the hives come again. The worst itch is in my armpit and I want to resist, but I can’t. I indulge in a few good scratches before going inside, hoping that’ll be enough to stem the tide I can feel coming.
I’m allergic to nothing other than panic, and when I find myself in a situation like this, both the hives and the lies start coming out. It’s obviously an evolutionary defense mechanism, designed to make me want to create a smokescreen and then run the hell away from whatever’s freaking me out. But I can’t run from this. I have to be strong and get rid of this damn ring.
Itch — scratch — itch — scraaaaatch.
I glance to the side and notice a gutter in the street covered in papers. It’s tempting to just throw the ring into it, but then I think about the person who bought it or who received it as a gift and I can’t not make sure that they get the ring back. Something this beautiful should never end up in a gutter. Or a fountain for that matter.
A security guard comes out the front door and frowns at me. “Can I help you with something?”
I smile weakly. “I’m not casing the place, I promise.” I give my armpit one last scratch and let my hand drop to my side.
“I sincerely hope not,” he says, resting a hand on the taser in his belt.
“I was just … getting ready to come in.”
He looks me up and down. “You in the market for some jewelry?”
His critical expression pisses me off. “As a matter of fact, I own some jewelry that’s worth quite a bit of money, and I want to talk to someone inside about it.”
He pulls the door open and nods once. “After you,” he says.
Now I have no choice. I can run and look suspicious as hell, making it pretty much impossible to return, or I can go in and do this thing.
Do this thing it is.
“Thank you,” I say, once again sounding like
I graduated from the Ivy League or something.
He follows me all the way to one of the counters off to the right of the store. The golden cases gleam with glittery things. I glare at him over my shoulder as he addresses the man in a suit behind a case full of diamond rings.
“This young lady says she has some jewelry to be appraised.”
“Actually, that’s not what I said.” I give him the stink-eye and then immediately change my expression to one of pure sweetness and look at the salesman. “I said that I have a ring worth quite a bit of money, and I wanted to talk to someone here about it.”
“Do you have the ring with you?” the man-boy asks me politely. His hair is parted exactly on the side with a bright-white part and slicked down with liberal amounts of gel. It could be dyed black, it’s so dark. He smells like the cologne counter at Macy’s, and there’s not a single fleck of lint on him anywhere. I suspect he’s either gay or a seriously dedicated metrosexual. Not that it matters what he is, but for some reason, it makes him more approachable to me than the man with the taser.
“Thank you, David,” the suited salesman says, looking behind me. “I’ll look after her.”
I give the security guard my best poo-eating grin. “Yes, David, thank you. You can go away now.”
He nods at the guy, completely ignores me, and leaves us alone.
I roll my eyes and turn back to my helper. “Thanks. That guy was so rude.”
“He’s my brother.”
“I knew that,” I say without thinking. My face starts to heat up.
The guy lifts an eyebrow. “You did?”
I wave my hand between us. “Oh, yeah.” I snort, like it’s so obvious you’d have to be an idiot not to notice they’re practically identical twins, when actually they couldn’t be more different. “He has the same facial structure. High cheekbones, arched brows.”
“I’m adopted.” The guy’s expression does not change. Not one bit.
He caught me in a lie, so now I’m pissed. That almost never happens. “Fine. I didn’t know you were brothers. Are you happy?” I’m completely deflated.
