"I hate to cut this short, guys, but we should get home."
"Ten minutes?" Asia asked.
"Sure. I want a cookie, too. But it’s a school night."
Asia wrapped her arms around Munch’s waist. "I love you, Mommy."
Munch hugged her back, then reached out and included Jill.
***
Benny called at ten. "You asleep?"
Munch yawned, looked at the clock, and shook herself awake. "Yeah, that's all right. What did you find out?"
"I talked to that guy about that thing. He’d like to look at the pictures. Should I send him to your work tomorrow?"
"Yeah. I’ll be there around nine. What’s his name?"
"Mr. Big."
"Shut up." Munch grinned in the dark.
"Colin Webster. Kind of a funny old guy. Real sweetheart, though."
"I’ll look out for him. Thanks." Munch hung up the phone and went through her nightly ritual of prayers. She gave thanks for all that she had to be grateful for. She didn’t ask for anything else. Some nights, she wasn’t even convinced that there was a God. The point was to remember how good she had it. That worked whether someone was listening on the other end or not.
As she waited for sleep, she remembered she hadn’t called Kathy She didn’t know if her memory would improve any by tomorrow.
Chapter 16
Munch got the kids off to school. She kissed Asia and told her she would see her in the afternoon. It was Thursday—Munch's day for helping out in the classroom. She planned to get to St. Teresa’s early and have a little chat with the staff about where they took their kids on field trips.
After Asia’s school bus picked her up, Munch told Lou about the incident at the petting zoo. He voted for trying to find the guy on their own. Munch assured him she was keeping that option open.
Carlos took Jill to Palm Elementary. He had parts to pick up at a dealership nearby. Jill had a swimming class at the YMCA after school, and one of her friends' parents promised to deliver her back at the gas station afterward.
Munch threw herself into the work, dividing the jobs among the mechanics, calling customers with estimates, ordering parts, checking on delivery times. She lifted the phone several times to call Rico, but each time decided against it. The third time she lifted the receiver there was no dial tone.
She waited a second and then said, "Hello?"
"It didn’t even ring," the man said.
"Who is this?"
"Chet Lombardi."
Munch looked at the work orders on the desk, trying to place the name.
"Ms. Mancini?"
"Yes?"
"You came to see me on Tuesday. At Venice High. I’m the guidance counselor."
"Oh, right. Mr. Lombardi. Sorry. I couldn’t, uh, so much has happened. Never mind. Have you heard something?"
"No, I’m actually trying to track down Lisa Slokum. I’ve called her house, but whoever answers her phone won’t tell me anything."
That would be the cops, Munch knew. "She’s sort of unavailable until tomorrow. " Munch didn’t want this guy to think Lisa had taken off or gone on some vacation with her kid missing. The truth wasn’t so hot either, but it was what it was. "Lisa is in jail. She had some traffic warrants. She should be out by tomorrow."
"Who’s taking care of Jill? I seem to remember that there isn’t a father in the picture."
"No, he’s dead. Ji1l’s staying with me. She’s fine."
"And still no word from Charlotte? Are there other relatives she might have gone to?"
"No, I’m it." Munch watched Stephano talk to one of his customers. The gas pumps were crowded with the morning rush. "I meant to ask you the other day. Were you Steve Koon’s
counselor, too?"
"Sadly yes. Steven was one of mine. There are three guidance counselors here at the school. We divide the students alphabetically. I have I thru R for the most part, but sometimes I take some of the others to even the distribution."
"Ms. Lubell said Charlotte and Steve ate lunch together sometimes. That they were part of a small group. Do you know who any of the other kids in their group were? Maybe one of them might know something."
"I’m sure they’ve all been spoken to. I don’t know anything about a clique. They were both loners, as far as I know. Steve missed a lot of school this quarter and Charlotte spends most of her free time in the humanities lab. She helps publish the school paper and she’s on the yearbook committee. But rest assured, we’ll continue to ask a lot of questions."
Munch was glad to hear Lombardi refer to Charlotte in the present tense. "Maybe we’ll get some answers soon."
"I understand that you’ve been distributing some flyers about Charlotte."
"Yes, I put some up in Hollywood."
"Do you have any more? Even one? I could make some more copies and have my kids distribute them at their hangouts."
"That would be a big help." Munch hung up the phone smiling. One thing about bad situations, they often brought out a lot of unexpected good in people.
At nine-thirty a red Ford Galaxy that Munch didn’t recognize pulled in front of the office. An old guy with white hair, cane, and big gut wrestled out from behind the steering wheel.
Munch was on her way to change a fan belt on a Chevy pickup that had been towed in earlier. She had a large, yellow-handled screwdriver in one hand that she used as a pry bar, the new belt in the other, and a box-end 9/16-1/2-inch combination wrench in her back pocket.
She stopped to greet the guy giving him time and room to stand. "Can I help you?"
He looked her up and down with a bemused expression. Munch was used to that. People didn’t expect to see a woman in a Texaco uniform, especially one with grease embedded in her fingernails and tools jammed in her back pocket.
"I believe we have a mutual friend," he said, pausing to cough into a large white handkerchief.
"Mr. Webster?"
"At your service."
"Just give me one minute." Munch jogged back to her work-bench. She set the fan belt and large screwdriver on the counter next to her toolbox. The envelope containing the photos of Meg Sullivan’s missing jewelry was tucked in the open top of her Snap-on rollaway, next to the manuals of torque specs and timing mark guides.
She brought the photos back to the guy. He was leaning heavily on his fender, mopping his brow with the same whitehandkerchief. Munch wondered if she should get him a chair.
"You want some water?"
"I’ll be fine." He stared first at the picture of the cameo.
"Very nice."
"Is it valuable?"
"Possibly. Although, to appraise this with any accuracy I would need to touch it and examine the workmanship under magnification. That would allow me to determine if the carving was man- or machine-made. Also if the cameo has been carved from one piece or assembled from different materials and glued together. "
"What can you tell from this?"
"Every decade had its trends. The woman’s long Roman nose dates this piece as pre-Victorian. Cameos have been around for many centuries. They’ve been discovered in archaeological sites in Italy and Egypt, often depicting mythological motifs such as this bacchante maiden with the grape leaves in her hair."
Munch looked again. "Is that what those are? I thought they were flowers. What does bacchante mean?"
"The Bacchae were the female revelers of Bacchus, an ancient Greek and Roman fertility god associated especially with the vine and grapes."
"Kind of a party dude then."
"Yes, I can send you some literature if you’re interested."
"I could write a book on the subject myself."
Mr. Webster smiled. "Benny said as much."
Munch grinned and blushed at the same time, hoping Benny had kept a few of their stories private. "Ancient history," she said. "Speaking of which, if this cameo was hundreds of years old, what would it be worth?"
"Depends on the provenance, but I’ve paid as much as fifteen hundred doll
ars for a
museum-quality piece once owned by Catherine the Great."
Munch nodded, keeping her true feelings to herself. She could see paying that much for a car or putting the money toward a savings bond, but a piece of jewelry?
As if reading her thoughts, Mr. Webster said, "It’s not just the ornamental value. This might very well be a piece of history. Queens Elizabeth and Victoria loved cameos. So did Josephine. in fact . . ."
Webster studied the picture again, then flipped to the other photos. He gave the picture of the gold locket no more than a cursory glance before he dismissed it. She was getting ready to apologize for wasting his time when Mr. Webster made a startled noise. He had come to the third photo, the one of the rings with the colored stones. Munch noticed the tremble in his hands.
"I thought this one might be a sapphire," she said, pointing to the blue. "But it's too big."
"Were these pieces all in the same lot?" Webster’s voice had become younger somehow, and he no longer leaned against his car.
"They were all stolen from the same lady."
"This woman is offering a reward?" Webster’s eyes were bright. Munch wondered what had gotten him so excited all of a sudden.
"She said they had sentimental value." Munch suddenly felt foolish, as if she were passing on a bogus story she had been gullible enough to swallow. Two kids had died, and another was missing. Was something they had stolen that valuable?
"Have you ever heard of the Hope diamond?" Webster asked.
"Yeah. It’s a really big diamond, right?"
He spread his thumb and forefinger a few inches apart.
"Forty-six carats. It’s last private owner was Harry Winston. He donated it to the Smithsonian in 1958."
"Must have been a very rich man." She wondered briefly if he had anything to do with Winston tires or Winston cigarettes. Great, now she was going to have that jingle in her head all day. Winston tastes good like a (eh eh) cigarette should.
"Some say he did it to rid himself of the curse."
"The diamond was cursed? Like King Tut’s tomb?"
Webster shrugged. "There are supporters of both sides of the theory."
Munch stole a look at the pickup waiting for its new alternator belt. "Excuse me a minute." she said. Carlos was walking back from the bakery with a white bag in his hand. "Carlos, would you do me a favor and hook up the charger to that truck?"
"Sure," he said, changing direction toward the corner of the shop where they stored the extension cord and battery charger. She turned back to Webster. "Sorry you were saying?"
"The legend begins with a theft. Three and a half centuries ago, a Frenchman named Tavernier traveled to India looking for artifacts. While there he discovered a large statue of the Hindu goddess Sita. The deity had a large blue diamond in her forehead, which Tavernier purportedly stole."
"How large?"
"One hundred and sixteen carats."
"How big is that?"
"Slightly smaller than a man’s fist." He closed his hand to demonstrate.
"But the Hope diamond is less than half that."
Webster smiled. "You’re getting ahead of the story."
"Sorry"
"No, actually, this is an important distinction. Tavernier, incidently was reputed to have been torn apart by a pack of wild dogs in Russia, but not before he traveled back to France and sold the stone to King Louis XIV King Louis decided to recut the diamond to enhance its brilliance. The newly cut gem was now a little over sixty-seven carats and officially named the Blue Diamond of the Crown. Sometimes referred to as the French Blue."
"Did something bad happen to Louis XIV?" Munch wasn’t exactly up on her French history.
"He died of gangrene. Some say in disgrace with his kingdom. Then, in the eighteenth century the diamond was passed on to Louis XVI and his wife, Marie Antoinette."
"And we all know what happened to them," Munch said, drawing a finger across her throat.
"Of course, a lot of people were beheaded in the French Revolution. You can’t blame the
diamond for that."
"Quite so. But then during the French Revolution, the story takes another twist. The crown jewels, including the French Blue, were stolen. Though most of the crown jewels were recovered, the Blue Diamond was not."
Munch looked at the picture of Meg Sullivan’s stolen ring. "You think this is a diamond?"
"The shade of blue is certainly ah, thought provoking."
"How big is this stone, do you think?"
"Hard to say without a reference to its dimensions. If this were a typical lady’s ring, I would guess three, perhaps four carats."
"Worth?"
"Whatever someone is willing to pay" he said. "It doesn’t appear to be an expert cut. However, if it could be sourced to the Hope or French Blue, it would be very precious indeed."
He winked. "Or not. Depending on how much credence you give to the curse."
Munch studied the picture. Could something so little, this tiny freak of heat and pressure, have cost both Steven Koon and maybe Painter Dave their lives? "So what you’re saying is the Hope diamond is the French Blue and they're both cursed."
"There is some evidence of this. A stone surfaced in England in the early 1800s. No one is quite sure if it was the same diamond that disappeared in France. There is a portrait of George IV of England wearing the insignia of the Royal Order of the Golden Fleece set with a large blue stone. The cut was different and it was smaller, now an estimated forty-six carats."
Royal Order of the Golden Fleece sounded like an award they should give to a few of the mechanics she’d worked with over the years. "What happened to old George?" she asked.
"He died in 1830, his estate encumbered by great debt."
Well, yeah, Munch thought, he wasted his money on big shiny rocks. "Where does Hope come in?"
"A decade later, a large blue diamond appeared in Henry Phillip Hope’s gem catalog. No history of the stone was given and there was no proven method to verify pedigree. Not that he was required to provide any proof. The size and beauty of the rock spoke for itself." Webster raised an index finger as if he were a professor making an important point. "Now we know that under exposure to ultraviolet light, and in a dark room, the Hope diamond phosphoresces red. Most other blue diamonds phosphoresce light blue."
"Cool," Munch said.
"Quite."
"And the curse?"
"There is a long history of owners of the stone losing their fortunes, their sanity their lives."
"People’s fortunes reverse all the time," Munch said, thinking that stolen items also had an energy, a karma of their own, and that they often kept moving.
"Yes, and some even say Cartier created the myth to increase the stone’s value."
"Did it work?"
"Perhaps too well."
"There’s also another twenty-some carats unaccounted for. Or am I wrong? What happens to the chips left over when they cut a diamond?"
"Depends on the size of them. Some are used for accent pieces. The powder is used for a variety of things, mostly industrial."
"How about a really big diamond?"
"Ah"—he smiled—"you’re catching the bug."
"It is a good story."
"I’ve always thought the missing pieces of the blue diamond would probably turn up someday in some obscure little antique shop." He lifted his walking stick. "Perhaps stuck in the head of a cane or something like that." He smiled. "You never know. I do look very carefully at all gemstones . . . especially the blue ones."
Munch felt a little thrill at his words and touched the picture with the tip of her finger. "Look, I don’t care who ends up with what. My niece has been missing since Monday. Ijust want to get her home safe. She’s tied up in this mess in some kind of way. Benny will vouch for me. I’m not looking to get anyone in trouble. I just want Charlotte home. So if you hear anything, if some of this jewelry surfaces, I'd appreciate a heads-up."
"I’ll keep that
in mind. If you locate this cameo, I would be interested in appraising it. No charge."
"I'1l pass that along to the owner if she gets it back. Maybe we’ll get a chance t0 shine a black light on this blue stone."
"Yes, that would be fun. Just think of it. A piece of history"
He could have the past. Munch was much more interested in the future.
Chapter 17
Munch shifted her knees. They were balanced on the top of a hot radiator of an Oldsmobile
Toronado that was giving her fits. Its quadrajet carburetor that she had rebuilt kept flooding. She set her plastic-wrapped sandwich on the broad fender of the Olds in between bites and removed the top of the carburetor to reset the float. The lunch meat was beginning to taste like gasoline, and the dangling secondary rods kept working loose and dropping in the wrong ports. She knew she needed to take a deep breath and step back. Some jobs, most jobs, didn’t respond well to rushing.
A black 450 SL Mercedes coupe limped in on a flat tire. A handsome man in a snowy white dress shirt and red "power" tie got out of the driver’s seat. He looked around him at the busy workers, stroked his tie as if to assure himself it was still attached, then looked at his watch. No one came out to greet him. Munch thought he looked familiar and then realized who he was. Meg Sullivan’s husband, the Irishman. She set aside the carburetor parts, gave up on the sandwich, and climbed down out of the engine compartment.
"Mr. Sullivan, can I help you?"
He smiled in relief and pointed to his tire. "I was hoping to find you here. Looks like I need your help again." The reason for the flat was obvious. The hooked end of a bungee cord had
pierced the sidewall.
"It’s not repairable." she said. "I can put your spare on, but I'd have to order the tire."
"That would be great." he said. "I’m in a bit of a hurry. I bet everyone tells you that."
"No problem. I’ll have you out of here in a jiff."
She fetched her air gun and a seventeen-millimeter impact socket from her toolbox. Tucking the tools under her arm, she rolled out the floor jack. The man opened his trunk. The carpet inside was spotless and still had that new-car smell. He started to reach for his spare, but Munch stopped him.
Unwilling Accomplice - Barbara Seranella Page 15
