by Mary Burton
That night, as Viv tossed and turned beneath her blankets, a pang of guilt tore through her. She was here to help Aunt Libby, not make things worse. She was the wayward-gamer-techie daughter and niece, who dressed in what they all considered weird clothing and sported several tattoos. But she loved her aunt and would do anything for her. She hoped it would be business as normal soon. That night, she dreamed of Stu, pale, falling, and reaching out to her.
Viv awoke with a shudder and stared up at her pink satin canopy. She’d never liked it. But this was the only available room. The canopy always reminded her of a coffin—tonight more than ever.
Viv glanced at the clock—5:30—pulled the chain on the lamp, and picked up her book. She needed to clear her mind. She knew she had nothing to do with Stu’s death, and she would not let the police rattle her. No, they should investigate what happened—not bother her and Abby. Poor girl loved him so much it bordered on delusion. She tried to read, but questions kept pulling her thoughts away from the book. Where had Stu’s body been found? Exactly how did he die? And what had happened to Queen Victoria’s mourning jewels? How did Stu get them into the country without having proper security?
After breakfast, she dialed Abby. “Can you meet me at the shop?”
“Are you crazy? No. Let’s stay away from there until the police figure this all out.”
“Okay. You’re either with me or not. I’m going in. I left my water bottle there, so if anybody catches me, I’ll use it as an excuse.”
Abby sighed. “What do you hope to accomplish?”
“I’m not sure. But I’d like to start by studying Stu’s files about Queen Victoria’s jewels.”
“Okay,” Abby said, her voice almost a whisper. “I’ll meet you there.”
They entered through the front door as if they had every right to be there. Which we do, thought Viv. In Stu’s office they found papers and files on his desk, along with the tea set he’d used the day before. Viv opened the file cabinet, checking under “V” for Victoria. Nothing. Then she checked under “Q” for queen. Nothing.
“How would he file the jewels?”
“Maybe under J?”
“Brilliant!” Viv said, as she opened another drawer and found a pink folder with the word. “Jewelry” on it.
Documents detailing the history of several of the jewelry pieces in the shop were jammed into a manila folder. Viv sifted through it, searching for something on the jewels from Great Britain as Abby rummaged around on his desk.
“Shoot. I see nothing here about the jewels.”
“Maybe he has the paperwork at his apartment,” Abby said.
“Do you have a key?”
“No, sorry. We never went to his house. Stu always said he liked my place better.”
So much for Viv’s brief foray into sleuthing. Abby burst into another fit of sobs and Viv made her sit down. As she searched for a tissue, something caught her eye in the trash. Something black and shiny. “Oh my God, Abby, it’s the jewels! They are right here. In the trash!”
“Wait!” Abby said. “Touch nothing!”
Viv’s heart nearly stopped. Abby was right. “We should call the police.”
“What are we going to tell them? I mean, we shouldn’t even be here.”
“Abby, these jewels are priceless. I don’t think the police will care about us sneaking in here.” Viv held up her water bottle. “We’ll tell them I came for this.”
Abby scooted around in her seat. “It’s not a good idea. Let them find the jewels on their own.”
What was wrong with her? She wasn’t thinking straight. Viv dug her cell phone out of her purse. “We’re calling the police right now.”
“Looks like the robbery was interrupted, and they panicked,” said Officer Willoughby a few minutes later. “We must get a forensics team in here. We’ll need to fingerprint you both because you’ve been in here. You came for a water bottle?” He rolled his eyes.
Viv held it up. “It’s special.”
“Yeah. I can see that.” He placed his hands on his hips.
“Please be careful with the jewelry,” Viv said. “It’s Queen Victoria’s mourning set. Or one of them anyway.”
Willoughby shrugged. “I thought mourning jewelry was about hair.”
“Yes, some of it. But Queen Victoria also wore jet pieces during her many years of mourning Prince Albert,” Viv said.
“I can’t believe this is happening!” Abby sobbed. “Please find who killed my Stu!”
Willoughby shifted his weight. “We’re doing our best, ma’am. We’ve gotten leads on two outsiders milling about that night.”
“Tourists?” Viv asked.
“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” he said. “But they may be our robbers. Or murderers.”
A dapper gentleman walked into Stu’s office. “Ladies, this is John Ainsworth. He’s a jewelry and antiquities expert from the University of Virginia. We thought it was a good idea for him to examine the jewels and make certain we’re storing them correctly.”
“Cool,” Viv said. Hard to place an age on him. His thick hair was gray and distinguished, but his face appeared younger.
The man held up the jet necklace to the light. “Fake,” he said bluntly.
“What? How can that be?” Abby squealed.
Viv’s mind swirled in confusion.
“I was suspicious when we found them in the trash,” Willoughby said.
Ainsworth’s eyebrows hitched. “I’d say you have one angry thief.”
Abbey sobbed again. “Poor Stu, killed over fake jewelry!”
The room silenced. “That’s one possibility,” Ainsworth said. “But jewel thieves, as a rule, are not murderers. I gather this was more of a smash and grab, not a professional job.”
“If that were the case, how would they know it was a fake? This is a well-made replica. It makes no sense,” Willoughby said.
“Where are the papers?” Ainsworth said. “If these jewels came from a museum in London, they would have papers with them, detailing the loan.”
“We’ve not found anything like that.”
“Keep looking,” he said, glancing at Abby and Viv. “May I speak with you in private, officer?”
Willoughby nodded. “It’s time for you two to leave.”
“Oh,” Viv said, standing. “Sorry. Yes. I hope this all works out.”
“I can’t believe Stu was ripped off,” Abby said, sniffing, as they walked out of the shop. “He was brilliant.”
No he wasn’t, Viv mused. Love is blind, but was it deaf and dumb too?
“Abby, you need to get a hold of yourself. I know it’s hard losing someone. It’s hard to imagine, but things will get better with time. I promise you.”
“I loved him so much… and he loved me. Only me.”
The next morning, commotion erupted from downstairs at the B&B. Viv could hear Aunt Libby say, “Do you have to come here? Can’t you take her to the station and question her? I have a business to run.”
Duly scolded, Willoughby cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I’ll just take a few minutes.”
“Officer Willoughby,” Viv said as she walked into the room, tying her robe. “What can I help you with?”
He held out a vial. “Is this the vial you saw Stu Johnson use when he added something to his tea?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t sugar. We’ve gotten the tox reports back. It was a common pick-me-up from the pharmacy, except there was a little something added to it. A poison derived from morning glory.”
Viv’s breath caught in her throat. How could that be? Abby mentioned making him something. She was a pro. She didn’t make mistakes like that. “I don’t understand. He was poisoned? By a jewel thief?”
“The jewels were fake from the start. He hired a man to forge them.”
“What?” Viv’s mind reeled, trying to make sense of all of this. Poison? Forgery?
“It was a publicity stunt!” Aunt Libby said. “I’m not surpri
sed.”
“So there was no thief?” Viv asked.
He shook his head.
“What will happen to the shop?” When it came out of her mouth, she realized how stupid it sounded. This probably wasn’t the right question to ask. She struggled to find words. “I mean…”
“Don’t worry. His wife will take care of the shop. It all belongs to her now.”
CAYCE’S TREASURES, by Lynn Cahoon
Guest Author
Strolling down the empty sidewalk, Cayce Andrews felt the heat with every step. Seattle was wet, but in New Orleans, the humidity was also hot and sticky, even in the early morning. Cups and trash littered the street, left over from a nightly French Quarter party.
As she crossed Royal Street in front of an old brick building, she saw a sidewalk sleeper eyeing her warily. She pulled a ten out of her tote. How the guy actually slept with all that going on, she didn’t know. She’d bought earplugs for her move into her new apartment.
“I’m not doing nothing,” the man mumbled as she moved toward the doorway. “You are here way too early. Customers don’t show up until after ten.”
“Who’s been here?” She held out the bill, hoping the gaunt man would use it for a meal.
His dirt caked hand grabbed the money. Ignoring her question, he focused on something over her shoulder. Following his gaze, Cayce saw a police cruiser easing down the one-way street. She turned back to see the man had stuffed his few belongings onto a small rollaway cart and was already shuffling in the opposite direction.
“So much for chatting.” Cayce focused on the building in front of her: 700 Royal, her building.
The joy and challenges of running a business in the historic New Orleans neighborhood had become her concern yesterday at two o’clock when she’d handed Matthew Goldstein a check. Owning an antique shop in the heart of NOLA had been her childhood dream.
A black Range Rover stopped in front of the building, and her brother stepped out. Nicolae Ardronic paused, his dark eyes taking in the building’s rundown façade. He reached down and picked up an empty go-cup. “This is what you got for your inheritance from Grandmother Andrews? Having buyer’s remorse yet?”
“Not on your life, Nic. I’m looking forward to starting this new chapter.” Cayce couldn’t help but grin at her brother. She dug the key out of her tote. “Want to see the inside?”
“Why not? My first appointment isn’t until noon.” Nic threw the cup into an overflowing trashcan. “I don’t want you staying late here. You call me if you leave after dark.”
“Funny, I found my way home for ten years in Seattle all by myself. Besides, by next week, I’ll be living above the shop.” Cayce fit the key into the lock and turned. She pushed but the door didn’t move. She’d heard the lock click. “That’s weird.”
Nic held his hand out. “Let me try. These old buildings can be stubborn.”
“I can do it myself.” Cayce kept the sigh internal. Her big brother was always trying to take care of her. She turned the key again. He held up one hand as she pushed the door open an inch.
“Hold on. You don’t think it was left open, do you?” He tried to peer into the shop without moving forward. “Who else has keys to this old firetrap?”
“That I don’t know. But I’ll find out.” She pushed past him into the main showroom. The lights were on? The smell of dust and age surrounded her. “Hello? Is someone here?”
An older woman stepped out of a side room. “Good morning. You’re my first customers of the day. What can I help you find?”
“Who are you?” Cayce asked.
The woman blinked in confusion. “I’m Sarah Stiner. And who am I helping today?”
“I’m Cayce Andrews. I purchased this building and the antiques business yesterday from Mr. Goldstein.” Cayce believed in ripping off the Band-Aid. Apparently Goldstein hadn’t taken care of the details like he’d promised.
The woman’s eyes widened. “Matthew sold the store?”
“Yes.” Cayce heard a noise from the back. “Who else is here?”
Sarah Stiner shook her head. “No one. I open the store Mondays through Fridays exactly at eight. I don’t work weekends. I just saw him yesterday. Why wouldn’t he have told me?”
Cayce was wondering the same thing. “I heard a noise in the back. Are you sure there’s no one else here?”
“That’s probably Harry.” Sarah sank into a chair and closed her eyes. “I’ve worked here for over ten years. What am I going to do now?”
Cayce threw an exasperated glance at Nic. He stood across the room, focused intently on an antique lamp that would keep him out of the conversation.
“Who’s Harry?” Cayce put a hand on the woman’s shoulder, trying to calm her down. “Can I get you a glass of water?”
Sarah pulled a tissue from her pocket and wiped her face. “That would be nice. The break room’s at the back, past the offices. Harry, well, he’s the building’s ghost.”
Of course, there was a ghost rumor. The brick building dated back to the eighteenth century. Every property had at least one ghost story that the tourist trade used for the nightly ghost tours. “I’ll go get the water.”
“Cayce, be careful. She’s not wrong.” Nic called from across the shop. Apparently he had been listening. Cayce tried not to roll her eyes in front of her brother. He had inherited the clairvoyant gene that ran in the family. Sometimes she thought she had received a little of the gift, too.
She found her way to the door marked Employees Only. Apparently, Matthew Goldstein had been a little too excited about his big payoff to deal with his employees yesterday. Cayce would get hold of him today and have him speak with the rest of the staff. She’d rather hire her own crew than inherit staff loyal to the aging dealer.
For the first time, she wondered if coming home to New Orleans had really been the best idea. There were plenty of other cities where she could have bought an antiques business, probably for less. Instead, she’d been drawn home with all the consequences.
She passed two empty offices and paused at the one before the break room. The gold plate on the door read Matthew Goldstein. Maybe he’s fallen asleep at his desk, she thought.
Pushing the door open, Cayce froze. A body lay before her, sprawled on a Persian rug stained crimson with blood. Matthew Goldstein wasn’t going to be telling his employees anything about the shop’s sale.
* * * *
“Are you positive the sale was completed?” Detective Boone Charles asked Cayce for the third time. He looked like a kid all dressed up for Halloween in his dad’s suit. His blue eyes twinkled in a face that seemed younger than his age. She’d been sitting in the employee break room for the last hour, drinking coffee and going over the events that had led her to purchase the store. Her hand was steadier now, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw the body sprawled on the Persian rug.
“I handed him a check. We signed the documents. The title company was filing all the paperwork. The transfer was complete.” Cayce glanced over to where Nic sat, working on his phone. He’d cancelled his appointments for the day to stay with her. Sarah Stiner had been questioned and let go thirty minutes ago.
“Then we’ll be in touch,” said the detective. The coroner had taken the body to the morgue and the crime scene guys had finished their work. Detective Charles closed his notebook and handed her a card. “I’ve written down the items we took out of Mr. Goldstein’s office. This is your receipt, although I don’t think you’re going to want that rug back.”
“So you’re done here? We can clean up and open?” Cayce took the card and dropped it into her tote. “I’ve got to get the apartment upstairs ready for my stuff. The moving guys are coming next week.”
“Please don’t tell me you want to do that today.” Nic didn’t look up from his phone.
“Give it a day before you reopen, just in case we need to come back,” said Detective Charles. He held his hand out to Cayce. “Sorry that your first day home turned into such a d
isaster.” He smiled at her confused look. “You probably don’t remember me, but we graduated high school together.”
“Boone Charles? Math geek, right? Sure, I remember now. And it’s not my first day back—I’ve been here for a few weeks, staying at the Monteleone.” Cayce did remember him—a shy kid who blended into the crowd. He was cute but really not her type, then or now. She was addicted to bad boys, a habit she was determined to break. “Anyway, thanks for coming, Detective Charles.”
“Call me Boone. My mother is only one who calls me Detective.” Boone headed out the door. “It’s a shame you’ve had this trouble.”
Nic waited for the detective to leave before he spoke. “Any way I can talk you into coming back to the compound with me? Annamae would love to have you come for dinner.”
“I don’t think so. I just want to order room service and dig into this inventory. This is not how I’d planned to spend my first day. You can drop me off at the hotel though.” She followed him out to the hallway, pausing at the door to Goldstein’s office. “Help me look for the accounting records before we go.”
Thirty minutes later, they’d gone through the office without finding much of anything. Nic closed the door behind them. “Maybe the police took his electronics.”
Cayce nodded and headed to the door. “I guess so. I’ll look more closely tomorrow.” As she passed by the second office, her instincts told her to reach for the knob. Reason number four hundred and five that she shouldn’t have come home: her own psychic powers were resurfacing. “Wait a sec. I might as well check this room out.”
A white envelope sat on a laptop on a Queen Anne desk in the middle of the room. She read the letter inside. “It’s from Mr. Goldstein. He says he loaded all the records on this laptop for me, and he’ll be out of the larger office by the end of the week.”
“He was off on his estimation by a few days.” Nic picked up the laptop for her. “Let’s get out of here.”
Cayce followed him out to the doorway where she locked and double-checked the doors. Tomorrow she’d have the locks changed. There was too much riding on this venture for her to fail.
