by Kathy
"I prefer not to discuss it." Riley rose. "None of it, including the rat, was directed at you, but unless you enjoy unpleasant surprises, you had better quit being so prompt."
He headed for the workshop. His back was as unassailable as a stone wall, but Meg persisted. "Was there a tag around that creature's neck?"
"Yes."
"What was on it?"
"The message was for me. You aren't the kind that reads other people's mail, are you?"
The door closed behind him before she could reply.
Meg was tempted to kick something—the counter, the wastebasket—but the fact that she was wearing open-toed sandals made her reconsider. Who the hell did he think he was, talking to her that way? But a good deal of her anger was directed at the unknown sender of the rat, and as it cooled she realized that Riley might not have meant to be offensive. He was just being his own sweet self—arrogant, reserved, suspicious. Anyhow, he had now had the opportunity to rescue her, if only from a dead rat. Maybe that would soothe his wounded ego.
The rat strongly suggested Rod Applegate, it was just his style, and if she had to choose between Applegate and Riley, it was no contest. But there might be other people who had excellent reasons for detesting Riley. Just because a man was persecuted didn't mean he was innocent, or virtuous.
Business was brisk that morning, most of it due to sellers rather than buyers. At first Meg couldn't understand the burst of activity; as she knew from Dan's complaints, one could go for days without being offered a collection, and she had three in a row. She didn't want to consult Riley. It might have been tactful to do so, but she couldn't keep on playing ego games with him, at least not where the business was concerned. She had to build her own self-confidence, and the first two groups of jewelry offered a perfect opportunity for honing her skills; they were marketable and easily classified, and the amount of money involved was not great. The reactions of the sellers to the prices she offered assured her she had not been far off the mark. Both grumbled, argued, bargained and finally agreed.
The third seller was another matter. A spare little man with hard dark eyes, he identified himself as a collector and dealer who had often acted as picker for Dan. He had three gold-filled bracelets, several bar pins and a necklace set with green stones he claimed were emeralds. Meg put them through the usual tests and they checked out, but her newly revived instincts told her they were not natural stones. Man-made gems were not glass, but genuine crystals, grown under conditions similar to those in nature, so their optical and chemical properties were often within the same range as those of genuine stones. When she expressed her reservations the dealer dug his heels in. He knew enough about gems to tell a natural emerald from a synthetic, he insisted, implying that she did not.
By this time the truth had dawned on Meg. The news of her legacy had gotten around, and some collectors were hastening to make deals with Dan Mignot's inexperienced granddaughter. She was tempted to come down hard on Mr. MacDonald—"Just call me Jock, your granddad did"—but a check of the records indicated that he had been a useful source and it would have been stupid to antagonize him. She smiled sweetly. "There's one way to make certain, isn't there? I'll have to call my partner; the microscope is in the shop."
Mr. MacDonald's unbeautiful face fell. He had lost, and he knew it. No matter how flawless they may appear to the naked eye, gemstones contain small foreign bodies—gaseous, liquid or solid—called inclusions, which are visible under strong magnification. The wispy, veil-like inclusions characteristic of synthetic emeralds are quite different from the irregular bubble shapes found in natural stones. Before MacDonald could think of a graceful way out, Meg pressed the button and Riley emerged from the shop. He and MacDonald greeted one another coolly, Meg explained, and Riley went off with the necklace. When he returned he handed it over with a brief, "Synthetic—as Ms. Venturi told you," and disappeared.
The deal was concluded, and MacDonald left, mumbling excuses. "Sure can't trust anybody these days, can you? I should've known better than to take his word, but I've dealt fair and square with him for years and I thought. . . ." He sounded no more convinced than Meg was.
The ring of the telephone echoed the jangle of the shop bells as MacDonald closed the door. The bells were still off-key. Meg reminded herself to have a look at them and reached for the phone.
"Daniel Mignot Jewelers," she said.
"You really are there," said the voice on the other end of the line. "They said you were, but I didn't believe. . . ."
"Darren?"
"Oh. Yes. Uh—I thought you were coming in yesterday to sign your will."
"I did say that, didn't I? Sorry, Darren, I forgot."
"It's quite important, Meg."
"I know. I really am sorry. I go to lunch at twelve. Why don't I run in for a minute then?"
"Well, uh—it's going to take more than a minute, Meg. Why don't you come now—it's almost eleven-thirty—and after we've finished our business we can go somewhere for lunch."
Meg glanced at the intercom. "I know those business lunches only too well, Darren. I've only got an hour. I'll meet you at Kate's if you like; bring the will with you and we'll get Kate and one of the others to witness it."
The suggestion outraged him even more than she had expected it would. Meg let him sputter for a few minutes and then said, "All right, if you're so insistent on staying in the office, why don't I bring a couple of sandwiches from the deli?"
After a moment Darren said, "You're teasing me."
Meg sighed. "Not intentionally, Darren. I am taking one hour for lunch, no more. I am perfectly willing to give you that hour. Shall I come at twelve, or would you prefer to wait until after work?"
Darren's sigh was longer and louder. "Come. As soon as you can. We'll discuss it when you get here."
Meg hung up. She had been teasing Darren; it was hard to resist, he took things so seriously. She had been just as unreasonable—maybe more so. She was entitled to take as much time as she liked for lunch, or any other purpose; she was just leaning over backwards to prove to Riley that she was serious about the store. Not that he cared. . . .
Mrs. Babcock's greeting was several degrees frostier than usual. When Meg saw Darren's desk, with deli sandwiches and cartons of coffee laid out on a covering of newspapers, she understood why, but it was not until after the secretary had stalked out, radiating disapproval, that she realized how thoroughly she had offended. Darren spoke in a whisper: "This was a good idea after all, Meg. She was bound and determined to sit in on our next conference, but she'd think it improper to eat with her boss. In fact, she doesn't approve of my eating lunch at my desk."
Meg was absurdly touched at his efforts to adjust to her unorthodox manners. Despite his brave words he was visibly ill at ease, and when he asked her permission to remove his coat, it was with the devil-may-care air of a man who has thrown convention to the winds.
"Go for it," Meg said encouragingly. "We could spill coffee on the will; then she'd have to retype it."
Darren laughed, but glanced uneasily at the door. Mrs. Babcock had him firmly under her plump white thumb. Meg wondered, half-seriously, whether Mrs. B. had been partially responsible for the breakup of Darren's marriage. It had only lasted five years. An unusual variant of the devoted secretary problem? Any wife would resent a woman who had more influence than she over her husband, and Mrs. B. had been in control too long to give it up.
"We'll have to get her in to witness the will," Darren said. "But I'd rather she didn't know about the other matter, at least not yet."
He handed her a thin sheaf of papers. "You must have found a very efficient private detective," Meg said, glancing at the first page. "I didn't expect results so soon."
Darren had taken a bite of his sandwich. He was careful to chew and swallow before he replied. "This is just a preliminary report, using public records. An in-depth inquiry will take longer, of course."
"Mmmm." There was nothing startling about the information on the
paper, but since it was all new to her, Meg read it with interest. No wonder Riley preferred to use his patronymic. His full name was Aloysius Loyola Riley—a proper little Irishman, Meg thought, with a smile. His father, who had died ten years earlier, had been a naturalized citizen, his mother was native-born. (Native-born in the truest sense, perhaps; it must have been from his mother's side of the family that Riley had acquired that distinctive hawk-nosed profile and swarthy skin. Now she was thinking like Dan, Meg realized; he had been too inclined to fit people into ethnic and national categories.) Date of birth, place of birth, education. . . .
"Service record?" Meg exclaimed. "He was in Vietnam? But surely he was too. . . ."
A glance back at the first page and a short exercise in arithmetic proved her wrong. "He was eighteen. Nineteen seventy-two—I thought it was over by then."
"Not until the end of the year. He was only there five months—"
"Long enough to be wounded," Meg cut in. "That's what a Purple Heart means, isn't it?"
"They gave Purple Hearts for mosquito bites," Darren said.
Meg was tempted to ask how he knew. Dan would have, with the wicked gleam in his eyes that turned a question into an insult. But then Darren would not have made a snide remark about his protege to Dan Mignot.
She folded the papers and put them in her purse. "I don't see anything here to his discredit."
"Nothing yet."
"You mean to go on with this?"
Darren folded his sandwich wrappings and put them in the wastebasket. "Meg, dear, we haven't even begun. It takes some time to check possible criminal records; if he committed any crimes as a juvenile, those records will be closed. The next step is to talk to neighbors and friends, teachers—"
"Collect gossip, you mean."
"That's the way it's done, Meg. I don't blame you for disliking the idea—"
"I hate it. I despise it. Darren, Dan must have had Riley investigated. He wouldn't have risked putting an embezzler or thief in charge of the store."
"That's a point," Darren admitted. "It's up to you, Meg.
You're the one who is paying the bills. If you tell me to call my man off, I will."
"I should damn well hope so," Meg muttered. "Oh, hell. I suppose he's already started the second stage of the investigation? Okay. Unless he turns up something within the next couple of days, tell him that's it. And for God's sake, don't breathe a word about this to anyone else."
"I hope you don't think I would violate a client's confidentiality," Darren said stiffly.
"I'm sure you wouldn't, but I wouldn't bet a plugged nickel on Mrs. B."
"She never opens personal letters."
"I wouldn't bet on that either. Who typed the letter to the detective, Darren?"
Darren's lips shaped a silent O of realization. "Well, there's no harm done," Meg said, in a softer voice. "I hope. Please make sure any further communications from this guy are marked "Private and Confidential, Black Widow Spider Inside," okay? I am sufficiently ashamed of violating Riley's privacy without feeling responsible for spreading the news around town."
"I think you're being unfair, Meg."
"Just careful, Darren." Meg looked at her watch. "I've got to get back. Let's get that will signed."
Darren took it out of the folder and handed it over. As she began reading it, he said quietly, "I suppose people keep telling you how much you remind them of Dan."
"Yes."
"You're a lot prettier." Meg looked up in surprise, and he added, "Which isn't saying a great deal."
"True." Meg laughed. "I didn't mean to sound like Dan, Darren. I appreciate your help and I respect your abilities and I will always be grateful for your advice—but I have to make my own decisions."
"Of course. When I said the other day that you had changed, it was meant as a compliment. I admire decisiveness and honesty in a woman."
Meg's smile froze. He doesn't mean it that way, she told herself. Most men don't realize how demeaning that phrase sounds. "Thank you," she said.
"Could we have dinner one night, do you suppose?" Before she could answer, Darren went on, "Not only for old times' sake, but. . . . It's easier to talk things over when we're not constrained by schedules and—er—"
"Devoted secretaries? Thanks, that would be nice."
"Saturday?"
"How conventional of you, Darren. All right. Now call your witnesses and let's get this over with."
When she left the office Meg was the proud possessor of a new will disposing of her theoretical property in a way she thought Dan would have approved, though Darren obviously did not. Had she done the right thing? She paused, to stare unseeingly at the display window of the boutique and arouse false hopes in the palpitating bosom of the manager. Maybe Ms. Venturi had changed her mind about that sequined evening gown. A steady customer with her income could be a big help to the store.
Meg's mind was not on that or any other article of clothing. Her grandfather might approve the will, but only as a temporary measure. His dynastic aspirations, hanging on the frail thread of a single female descendant, would not be satisfied until she had a husband and children. The right husband, of course, and a son, by preference. It was a wonder Dan hadn't made marriage to the man of his choice a condition of her inheritance. Perhaps that sort of condition was illegal nowadays? Or perhaps Dan hadn't found a man he considered worthy. . . .
Openmouthed, Meg considered the bizarre suspicion that had entered her mind. Surely not. Such a plan would be too weird, even for Dan. Nor could she take his approval of Riley for granted. He had made plenty of mistakes in his time.
Unaware of the interested watcher, she grimaced and shook her head. However, the window display reminded her that she needed something to wear if she was going to have dinner with Darren. She knew why he had suggested it. He sensed she had not been completely candid with him, and he hoped the relaxed ambience of soft lights and good food and fond reminiscence— not to mention the effects of a few glasses of wine—would invite her confidence. If he only knew how much I've held back, Meg thought. The hoard of jewelry, the strange telephone call, the dead rat. . . . Well, why not dump the whole mixed bag onto him? She needed advice and there was no earthly reason why she shouldn't ask it of Darren, her friend and her lawyer. I'll think about it later, she decided.
The manager of the boutique watched Meg walk briskly away. "What a snob," she remarked to the saleswoman. "Did you see the way she sneered at the things in the window? I suppose she thinks she's too good for any place but Saks and Neiman Marcus."
Had she seen Meg rummaging through the racks at the local dry-goods store, she would not have changed her opinion. Reputations are shaped not by facts but by prejudices.
As Meg lingered over breakfast the following morning she wondered whether it was cowardice or courtesy that kept her in her chair. She wasn't particularly anxious to encounter another dead rat, or its equivalent, but George was so eager to please and amuse her that it would have been rude to walk out on him. Even Frances was in an amiable mood. A few days of peace and quiet had banished Mrs. Danvers. The weather was lovely, her adored mistress was in good spirits and excellent health, and Meg had settled down to do her duty as Frances and Frances's God saw it.
"Have another muffin," she urged, hovering. "You've got to keep your strength up if you're going to work all day."
Meg took the muffin. It was easier than arguing. After Frances had gone, looking smug, George resumed the conversation where she had interrupted it.
"So you're sure you don't mind if I go away for a day or two? I'll be back Sunday night at the latest."
Meg said warmly, "Uncle George, you don't have to ask my permission. You're your own boss, and as far as I'm concerned you always will be."
"That's sweet of you, child." Her uncle's face relaxed into one of his charming smiles, and he added, "But very impractical, one of these days you'll want to go over the tax and financial records for the store—"
"Don't remind me,"
Meg said, wincing theatrically. "I can't take on anything complicated just now. I've got my hands full with Riley. Whipping him into shape is going to take all the energy I possess, and then some."
George laughed. "If anybody can do it, you can. All the same, Meg—"
"I've got to run." Meg stood up. "The challenge awaits, and I have to tackle it while I'm fresh. See you tonight."
He didn't argue, though his expression told her he was well aware why she was beating a hasty retreat. It wasn't until she was out of the house that a possible reason for his original question finally dawned on her. He had not been asking her permission to go away; he had been asking if she was afraid to be left alone.
When Meg reached the store the door was unlocked, the shade was up and the "Open" sign was in place. Even the window glass sparkled.
Riley was behind the counter. "Morning," he said.
The greeting represented a quantum leap in affability for Riley, and Meg gave him a broad smile, like a teacher encouraging a difficult child. "Good morning. As you see, I took your advice. Did you find any little surprises when you opened up?"
She was learning to read that frozen face of his. It did express emotion, but so sparely that only someone who knew him well would notice. Meg caught the blink and the movement of his eyes, and remembered the freshly washed window. "I was kidding," she said slowly. "Don't tell me—"
"I did tell you. It's not your problem." He started toward the window, and the sight of the object he held made Meg forget what she had been about to say.
"It's Bel-shumu! I wondered what had happened to him." She held out her hands, and Riley gave her the statuette.
It was the figure of a man, bald and big-eyed, wearing only a pleated skirt and a placid smile. His hands were folded across his comfortable stomach. Meg's fingers closed over the small, eight-inch-high carving. "He was Dan's mascot," she murmured. "Patron saint was more like it. ... How did the contract read? 'As concerns the gold ring set with an emerald. . . ."
