Into The Darkness

by Kathy

  "I could do with a nip myself," Cliff announced. "How about you, coz?"

  "I could do with an explanation," Meg snapped. "I'm tired, and it's late—"

  "Don't we know." Cliff dropped into the chair Frances had vacated. His face was drawn and his hair stood up on end, as if he had been tugging at it. "If you'd been home by midnight, as you said—"

  "For God's sake!" Meg clapped a hand to her mouth. "I'm sorry, Uncle George, but Cliff—"

  "Cliff didn't mean that the way it sounded. Why don't we go into the parlor and sit down?" George took her arm. "We had a phone call a couple of hours ago, Meg. The caller said you wouldn't be coming home."

  "What?" Meg dropped into the chair to which he had led her. "I don't believe it. Who was it?"

  "It was a man's voice," George said. "Muffled, as if he were speaking through a handkerchief. I happened to be the one who took the call; it was a little after ten, I was working in my study."

  At ten o'clock, she and Nick had been together. But that was crazy, Meg thought, shocked that the suspicion could even enter her mind. Nick was a selfish, self-centered bastard, but he would never. . . . "What exactly did he say?"

  "He asked for you. I said you were out for the evening and offered to take a message. Up to that point, of course, I assumed it was an ordinary social call." Remembered shock hardened George's face as he went on, "He laughed. It was a singularly . . . unpleasant laugh. Then he said something like, 'No point in leaving a message. She won't get it.' I thought I must have misunderstood; I assured him I would deliver the message. He laughed again, and said, 'She won't be back. She's never coming back.' "

  Meg swallowed. Her throat felt dry. "And then?"

  "That was all. He hung up. He was . . . laughing."

  "It was a sick joke," Meg said again. "Nothing happened." The snifter of brandy Cliff had poured for her stood untouched on the table. Of all the things Meg didn't need just then it was a substance that would cloud her thinking. Cliff had almost finished his. His concern about her had seemed genuine, and Meg would have been touched if he hadn't recovered so quickly.

  Peering owlishly at her over the top of the glass, he remarked, "I have to admire your cool, coz. I wouldn't be so relaxed if I had a comedian like that after me."

  "After me?" Meg glared at him. "I tell you, nothing happened. Nobody followed me, nobody tried to stop me. Nobody dropped cyanide into the soup. The man didn't even know for sure that I was out, he asked for me first, didn't he? If Uncle George had said, 'Just a minute, I'll get her,' he'd have hung up."

  "Or not," Cliff murmured into his brandy.

  "If you're trying to scare me," Meg began. The brave denial stuck in her throat. It turned her cold to imagine what that muffled, anonymous voice might have said to her.

  "Damn right I am." Cliff slammed his glass down on the table. "First the ring, then this. I want you to be so goddamn terrified you'll start taking precautions."

  "The ring wasn't sent to me."

  Cliffs lip curled, in a gesture as eloquent as speech. He looked at his father, who said reluctantly, "We can't be certain of that, Meg. I talked to Frances. She couldn't remember to whom the envelope was addressed. She put it with my mail because it looked like a business communication, and you hadn't received any letters."

  "I did, though," Meg said. "Sympathy cards—"

  "I'm just quoting Frances." Her uncle sighed. "The way that woman's mind works is a mystery to me, always has been."

  "The point is," Cliff began.

  "I know what the point is." Meg put her head in her hands. "If you'll stop badgering me for a minute and give me time to think. . . ."

  There was a respectful silence—respectful on George's part, at any rate. Only his father's repressive stare kept Cliff quiet. He was so charged with energy it radiated from him like a visible aura.

  Finally Meg raised her head. "I appreciate your concern," she said formally, addressing both of them. "And I can understand why you were upset. But I refuse to take extraordinary precautions against a nonexistent threat."

  "What do you call extraordinary?" Cliff demanded.

  "Your talent for aggravation," Meg snapped. "Let me finish, will you please? I refuse to have some sleazy private eye or bodyguard following me around. That's what you had in mind, wasn't it?"

  From the glance that passed between her uncle and his son, she knew she had been right. "Furthermore," she went on, before either of them could object, "I forbid you to take such a step without my permission. If I find you have—and I will find out—I'll . . . I'll leave this house and never come back."

  They spoke at the same time. George's mild remonstrance was drowned by Cliff's louder voice. "Maybe that's exactly what someone wants you to do."

  "There's no indication that he wants anything, except to cause concern," Meg said firmly. "Crank calls are only too common in today's world. Dan was a well-known person and he undoubtedly had a few enemies. Don't you see—it's the vagueness of the remarks that prove how harmless they are. You interpreted them as threats—of kidnapping, or worse. But they are susceptible to other interpretations."

  " 'She's running away from home.' " Cliff lowered his voice to a sinister rumble. " 'Eloping with the chauffeur.' "

  "That's one possibility. Simple, dirty-minded scandal-mongering. How can there be any danger? I don't threaten anyone, I don't stand in anyone's way. The only people who would gain from my death are a lot of high-minded institutions. You don't think the Metropolitan Museum hires hit men, do you?"

  "Very eloquent," Cliff said, his lips twitching. "You make a good case, Meg. But you're forgetting one—no, two—little things."

  "What?"

  "First, this character may not have known whether you were out, but he knew one thing that's not general knowledge. The phone number." He paused, his head tilted quizzically, as if giving her a chance to reply. Meg was silent. "It's unlisted," Cliff went on. "Second point—there is one person who would definitely profit by your—let me think how to put this. . . ."

  "Premature demise?" Meg suggested coldly.

  "Not even that, necessarily. By your cessation of interest in a certain asset and your retreat to safer regions. Need I mention his name?"

  Pleading exhaustion, Meg left them to it. That they would continue to discuss the matter she did not doubt; but she had come to the end of her rope, she couldn't take any more. Cliffs dislike of Riley had prompted his theory, but there was that business of the telephone number.

  Riley wasn't the only one who knew it. Dan must have given it to his friends and business acquaintances, including Mike and Barby and Ed. Not that she thought any of them capable of such a vicious trick, but that meant the information was available to anyone who had access to their personal telephone directories— and Riley's. Candy, among others—and perhaps Candy's ex-husband. An insinuating anonymous phone call was exactly Rod Applegate's style. As a youth his sense of humor had been based on the pain or humiliation of his victims.

  Tired as she was, Meg stopped to listen outside her grandmother's door. God be thanked, there was not a sound, not even a chuckle of happy laughter. Meg went to her own room and closed the door behind her with a sense of reaching a long-sought sanctuary.

  Resisting the temptation to peel off her clothes and fall into bed, she went into the bathroom and proceeded grimly through her nighttime health-and-beauty routine. No more slacking off or self-pity; she couldn't afford either. "I am the captain of my soul," she told the face that glowered back at her from the mirror on the dressing table as she slapped on moisturizer with a force that gave her cheeks a spuriously healthy glow. "Also the master of my fate. Furthermore, I have miles to go before I sleep. Dan, I laughed at you and your corny old poems, but you had the right idea when you taught me to declaim them from hilltops and other high places. If you shout noble sentiments loud enough, you almost start to believe them. I have to be the master of my fate; there's nobody else now that Nick. . . . You'd be happy about that development, would
n't you, Dan? I wonder how you'd feel about the rest of it. I wonder what you knew that you didn't tell me. Surely there was time—it happened so fast, Frances said—but surely you must have had some warning. You might have told me, Dan."

  A soft rustling sound from the other room brought her to her feet and tipped over the bottle of lotion. Meg caught it in time, realizing that her pulse was a little too fast. The window was open; the breeze had moved the curtains. That was all. But perhaps she had better stop asking questions. A reply from that source would be worse than ignorance.

  One final chore—unpacking the clothes she had bought, left in the bags in her rush to Nick. As she hung them in the closet, Meg realized that in a sense Dan had answered, not the question she had asked, but one that was more important. "Don't stand around asking questions, go find out!" had been one of his favorite sayings. Meg smiled as she considered her plan. Her uncle would have described it as a decidedly unpleasant smile.

  The chime of the bells sounded slightly off-key that morning. There was no one in the store—no customers, no clerk, no manager—but the soft tinkle had scarcely died away before the workshop door opened and Riley came out. His attempt at the salesman's look of polite anticipation was so bad Meg was tempted to laugh. When he recognized her he stopped trying.

  "Good morning," she said brightly.

  "Good morning."

  "How are things going?"

  "As usual."

  Meg abandoned the small talk; Riley was about as sociable as a glacier. "Have you found someone to replace Candy?"

  "Not yet."

  Meg put her purse on the counter with a decisive thump. "You'd better give me a quick run-through on the stock. I can't wait on customers unless I know what's here."

  It pleased her to see he could display a normal human emotion. Surprise slackened his tight lips and widened his eyes. They weren't brown, as she had thought, but a clear, bright hazel.

  "But—but you can't—"

  "Don't ever say 'can't' to me!"

  He recognized the source of the quotation, and for a moment she thought he was going to smile. Wrong again. It had been an incipient grimace, quickly controlled. "I expressed myself badly, Ms. Venturi. You can do anything you please here— and, as far as I'm concerned, anywhere else. But it isn't necessary for you to play salesclerk. I have a couple of prospects lined up, and I can manage quite well alone." The grimace reappeared as he added, "Business hasn't been exactly brisk."

  "It will pick up as soon as people find out I'm here," Meg said. "They may not buy, but they'll drop in to stare and gossip." The crack about "playing" at salesclerk rankled; she added gently, "I sold socks and underwear in Filene's Basement for six months. If I can handle a Washington's Birthday sale, I should be able to handle this."

  "That's. . . ." His teeth bit off the next word. She wondered what it would have been: Preposterous? Ridiculous? Something negative, no doubt.

  After a moment he said, "It's up to you. I can't stop you, can I?"

  You're certainly trying, Meg thought. She had not expected gratitude, but he didn't have to make it quite so obvious that he didn't want her around. "No, you can't," she said sweetly. "You can't fire me, either. But don't worry, I won't give you the sort of trouble Candy did."

  "Believe me, Ms. Venturi, that possibility never entered my mind."

  It wasn't a grimace. It wasn't a smile, either, but at least there was a hint that the muscles capable of producing that expression were not completely atrophied.

  When they began examining the stock Meg was surprised at its quality and quantity. She knew it was becoming increasingly difficult to find good sources for antique jewelry. Riley condescended to explain: "Dan had contacts all over the world—and the best reputation in the field. Sellers knew he gave top prices." After a slight pause he added, "I'd like to continue that practice."

  "Of course," Meg said absently, examining a tray of gold bracelets. "But I think we should consider raising our prices— not much, say ten to fifteen percent. Our clientele is also worldwide, they can afford to pay more. Seven-fifty for this bracelet is ridiculously underpriced."

  Riley glanced at the piece, braided mesh-woven strands of gold with a clasp set with cabochon opals and small diamonds. "Dan only paid two-fifty for it. It's ten-carat—"

  "In perfect condition, and a hundred years old."

  "It's been repaired."

  Meg raised the loupe and checked the piece more carefully. "Where? I don't see anything."

  "That's what you can expect to see when I make the repairs," Riley said.

  Meg gave him an incredulous look. He appeared to be quite serious, but she had begun to suspect that a sense of humor, of sorts, did exist behind that stony face. She examined the bracelet again, and then shrugged. "I'll have to take your word for it. You should know. Where did you learn how to do work like this?"

  "Oh—here and there." Riley leaned against the counter, his hands in his pockets. "Didn't Dan give you my resume?"

  "Dan didn't tell me a damned thing about you," Meg said bluntly.

  "Oh?" It wouldn't have been accurate to say his eyebrows rose, they tilted up at an oblique angle from the inner corners, giving his controlled face an almost comic look of surprise. "Well, you've just seen what I can do in the way of metalwork. I'm a competent gem setter—not as good with diamonds as with colored stones. I've done some designing. I have my GG—that stands for Graduate Gemologist—"

  "I know what it stands for. Did you do the residency?"

  "Yeah. Six months. I spent a year in Munich studying antique jewelry with a guy who used to be a curator at the Schatzkammer, and another year in New York working with Ballantyne." He paused, his eyebrows tilting even farther, this time in inquiry. Meg nodded. Josef Ballantyne had been one of Tiffany's top goldsmiths. "And for the last three years I've worked with Dan Mignot," Riley said. "Anything else you want to know?"

  He hadn't told her any of the things she really wanted to know. Who are you, where do you come from, how did you meet Dan—why did he love you, or fear you, enough to give you one of his greatest treasures? It was too soon to ask those questions. So far so good, but so far they had only talked about the business, and he seemed prepared to recognize her right to that kind of answer.

  "I wasn't questioning your competence, Riley. If it was good enough for Dan, it's good enough for me. But you'd better leave the selling to me. Even if the bracelet isn't entirely original, a collector would pay twelve-fifty for it, and not bat an eye.

  People are investing in antique jewelry as they are in other antiques and in fine art. You know the basic rule: a piece is worth exactly what someone will pay for it. Right now the market is hot, and very inflated."

  Riley shrugged. "That suits me. Dealing with people isn't my strong point."

  "Really? You amaze me."

  They moved on. Meg lingered over the extensive display of earrings, passed quickly by a tray of elaborately woven hair jewelry. She was pleased and surprised at how quickly long-forgotten knowledge came back to her. Dan had been a better teacher than she had realized. Perhaps it wasn't so surprising, though; she had practically lived at the store while she was growing up, and when Dan wasn't working with gems he was talking about them. For Meg it had been total immersion as well as fascination. As a child, instead of fairy stories she had been told the legends and mysteries of the world's great jewels. Some were as exciting and even more fantastic than fiction. Captain Blood—the real Captain Blood—had stolen the Crown of England from the Tower of London itself, and been made one of the royal guard by Charles II after his capture and arrest, on the intelligent theory that a successful thief was the ideal person to catch other thieves. Then there was the incredible tale of the crown jewels of Spain, hidden behind a secret panel in one of the walls of the 360-room palace before the invasion of Napoleon. A loyal servant had kept samples of the draperies of the room so the jewels could be located afterwards, but Napoleon's upstart brother Joseph, to whom he had given the Span
ish throne, had redecorated, and when the legitimate line was restored, no one could remember where the jewels were. It would have been impossible to tear down all the walls—so the jewels were still there, somewhere.

  As Meg grew older, tales of hidden treasure and murder most foul were replaced by actual experience, in the store. Dan wouldn't let her handle his tools, but she developed a keen eye for style and technique. It wasn't until after she learned the truth about what had happened to her father that her love of jewels was contaminated and she turned away from anything that would remind her of his treachery.

  But she hadn't forgotten. Nor had there been great changes in the field—a few more technical gadgets, some refinements of tools whose basic design hadn't changed since the ancient world, but nothing that put her knowledge out of date. Adding to her pleasure was the bemused look on Riley's face as she showed off, using her loupe with expert ease, rattling off the names of obscure gemstones (morganite, kunzite, amazonite) and identifying the date and country of origin of various pieces. She was careful not to stick her neck out too far, but if she was mistaken he didn't correct her.

  Then they came to the last case.

  At first glance the contents appeared to be a hodgepodge of styles, without organization or theme: a vaguely Art Nouveau silver pendant, a brooch of garnets surrounded by intricate patterns of granulation, a necklace.. . . Wide as an Egyptian beaded collar, massive as a Celtic torque, it was like nothing she had ever seen; its aggressive burst of color stunned the eye. Garnets, pale green peridots, topazes in all the golden-brown variations, aquamarines and amethysts and pink beryls (morganite) jostled one another in seemingly random confusion; but as she stared, mesmerized by the barbaric exuberance of the design, a pattern began to take shape. Just as she was on the verge of grasping it, it dissolved, leaving her to wonder whether she had only imagined it or simply failed to see what a second, closer examination would reveal. . . .