by J. C. Eaton
“I think Rolo is going to make it spin more. Augusta had the cover sheet for his fax and it said he was working on the Klingons and would get you that information tomorrow. What the heck? Klingons? The guy’s been beamed up one time too many, if you ask me.”
Marshall choked back a laugh. “‘Klingons’ is a term Rolo uses for information that literally clings on to something else. In this case, he’s tracking down any other accounts that might link to the ones he’s found. You know, like a savings account linked to checking. Or, most likely, accounts that show frequent monetary transfers back and forth.”
“Do you think Kimberlynn Warren was transferring money from the Lillian’s account into her own?”
“If she did, Rolo will spot it.”
“There’s one more thing Augusta noticed.”
“If Augusta keeps this up, we’re going to have to give her a raise. What was it?”
I told him about Marque Living and he agreed with me. Either he or Nate would have to have a chat with them sometime this week. Of course, there was no crime in purchasing decorative artwork, but if a deal went bad, as Marshall had pointed out, it could be a motive for murder.
“Okay, then,” he said. “I’ll catch you tomorrow. Let me know what your evenings look like so we can get together. And unless hell freezes over, save next weekend for me.”
* * *
When I arrived at work the next morning, Marshall had already left for the Lillian with Nate to hunt down Kimberlynn Warren. Augusta was sitting at her desk with a scowl on her face and Rolo’s latest fax in her hand.
“I had to wait for the second fax to come in so I could figure out the first one. No wonder I have to touch up my roots all the time.”
“What does it say? Rolo was going to see if any of the accounts were linked to other ones or if there was unusual activity. According to Marshall, ‘Klingons’ refers to anything that clings.”
Augusta adjusted her glasses and took another look at the sheet of paper. “We’ve got the English language. It wouldn’t kill him to use it.”
“So, let me see. Do any of those accounts stand out?”
“Uh-huh. Just as I suspected—Marque Living and that one from the Lillian. Also, a third one, from California.”
Just then the phone rang and she picked it up. I waited by her desk as she took the call.
“Yes, I’ll let him know.” The instant Augusta hung up, she turned to me. “That was the sheriff’s office calling Mr. Williams. The lab confirmed those things were diamonds.”
“Wow. I thought as much.”
“There’s more. They were substantial enough to have serial numbers. Damn government. Everything’s got to be numbered these days. Next thing you know some imbecile in Washington will want us to have bar codes on our arms.”
“Only really, really expensive diamonds have laser serial numbers. I read about it a long time ago. I think it’s to prove the diamonds aren’t conflict diamonds. Did the sheriff’s office tell you anything else? Did they tell you who they were registered to?”
“Nope. Said for Mr. Williams to call them.”
“Bummer. I was hoping we’d find out where they came from.”
“Mr. Williams will find out, and he’ll let us know.”
“Yeah, yeah. But that could take hours. Who knows how long he’ll be at the Lillian.”
Augusta shrugged and I stood there momentarily.
“Geez,” I said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve got a ton of work to do and all I really care about doing is solving those murders.”
“Good thing you work for a private investigator and not the county coroner. You’d be wanting to perform an autopsy.”
“Ugh.”
Nate called at a little past ten to tell Augusta he’d be running a tad late for his appointment with a new client at eleven. He also mentioned something about Marshall meeting with one of the deputies at the sheriff’s office. Maybe they’d tell him where those diamonds came from.
Then another call came in. One I’d been anxious to get ever since Aunt Ina and I traipsed over to Punkin Center. It was the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office relaying some information from its counterpart in Gila County. With my door wide open, I heard Augusta’s end of the conversation and marched myself into the front office.
The second she hung up, I put both hands on her desk and leaned forward. “So, are you going to tell me? Are you going to tell me?”
“You sound worse than my eight-year-old great-niece. There’s nothing to tell you.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is they were as closemouthed as they were the first time they called today. You’ll just have to wait for Mr. Williams to get back and call them.”
“Aargh. This is so infuriating. Could this investigation possibly move any slower?”
“Look at the bright side. When you got up this morning, you didn’t know those stones you found were really diamonds. Now you do. If you ask me, you know a lot more than you think. Do you want me to put this thing together for you or would you rather stand here whining?”
“My God! Diamonds. Stolen diamonds. They had to be stolen, right? Only a thief would hide gems in a piece of greenware. But there’s been nothing on the news about stolen diamonds. Nothing that I can—wait a second. Wait a second.”
Augusta thumbed the desk. “I’m waiting. Hell might freeze over, but I’m waiting.”
“A while back, I was fiddling around with a news app and they mentioned some update on a diamond heist that took place in Europe a few years ago. I really wasn’t paying much attention. And then this weekend my aunt Ina called and told me about Quentin Dussler taking a transatlantic voyage from Belgium to Fort Lauderdale. That was a few years ago, too. And he acted really funny about having to have a special safe. Oh my God! You don’t suppose? Because I do. It’s been staring me in the face all this time. Quentin Dussler must have stolen those diamonds in Belgium. Probably Antwerp. That’s the largest diamond district in the world. It’s a square mile. That’s why Quentin made his way to Zeebrugge and took a cruise ship to Florida. Less conspicuous that way. Don’t you see, Augusta? He stole diamonds, snuck them into the United States, and buried them in the greenware. It’s so obvious. The real owner found out and murdered him. It wasn’t his wife who was stealing the diamonds. It was him.”
“Slow down. You lost me. What about the wife?”
“I heard she worked in the diamond industry in New York. But it wasn’t her. It couldn’t have been.”
I was rambling on, a mile a minute, and tapping my feet at the same time. “I figured out the motive. And I might have solved an international jewel theft. Do you have Rolo Barnes’s phone number handy? Marshall was going to ask him to look into possible art thefts. My theory, too. Only I was wrong. About that. But not this.”
“Slow down. You’re giving me a headache, and should you be the one calling Rolo Barnes? Not that I’m telling you what to do, but—”
“You’re right. You’re right. This is so darn frustrating. We’ll have to sit around all day and wait for Nate or Marshall to get back.”
“Or we can actually earn our paychecks. . . .”
“Very funny. We’ll catch up at lunch. Let’s call out for something.”
“Fine with me.”
It wasn’t until quarter to four when Nate and Marshall got back to the office. I couldn’t wait to tell them my theory. Especially since I was 100 percent certain I had it all figured out. They listened attentively and then poked more holes in it than a slice of Swiss cheese. I was furious.
“What? That can’t be right. Are you sure? Is Rolo absolutely sure? Did you have him double check?”
I was leaning against Augusta’s desk and literally felt like picking up her stapler and heaving it across the room. Marshall walked toward me and gave me one of those patronizing pats on the shoulder, but it wasn’t working. Meanwhile, Nate stood a few feet away rubbing his chin.
“It’s the best theory
we have.” I stared at my boss.
“That may be the case, but it’s still wrong. Look, the timeline doesn’t add up. Quentin Dussler boarded that ship in Zeebrugge a week before a major diamond heist took place in Antwerp. Whatever he stowed away in the ship’s safe wasn’t from that heist.”
“But, but . . .”
“Rolo located the ship’s manifest. Quentin boarded it from Zeebrugge. The dates don’t lie. About a week later, thieves stole diamonds valued in the millions from a secured diamond house in Antwerp.”
Augusta cleared her throat. “Couldn’t have been that secured.”
Nate continued. “But you are right about one thing, kiddo.” “What’s that?” I asked.
“The diamonds that you and Marshall found in the clay club room came from that theft in Antwerp. If that doesn’t put us in high gear, nothing will.”
“I don’t understand.”
Marshall raised an eyebrow and let out a slow breath. “It’s an international jewel theft. That means the FBI and Interpol will be contacting the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office if they haven’t done so immediately. We’ll be mired under with protocols and paperwork. Not to mention those agencies usually don’t like to work with us local investigators.”
I couldn’t believe what I heard. “Yikes. I get it. That diamond heist comes under their jurisdiction, but what about the murders?”
Marshall continued. “If that piece of greenware can be linked to Quentin, they’ll consider his murder part of the case. As far as Sharon Smyth’s death is concerned, there’s no definitive evidence that would cause them to get involved.”
“You’re absolutely sure about the timeline?”
“Give it up, Phee,” Augusta said. “The dead guy wasn’t your thief.”
Chapter 28
“Ah-hah! I still think Quentin was behind all of this,” I said. “Stolen diamonds were found in a piece of pottery. In Sun City West, no less. And what about those bank routing numbers from his inventory? How did Kimberlynn Warren explain what the Lillian was doing on that list?”
Nate walked to the Keurig, selected a flavor, and popped it in the machine. “According to her, the company that manages the Lillian purchased the piece for its aesthetic beauty, as well as an investment. She said it was a common practice for resort residences.”
“Fine. So where is it? Where is it being displayed?”
“Now we get to the sticky stuff,” Marshall said. “The clay piece in question fell from its display area and shattered.”
Augusta cleared her throat to the extent that the sounds she made were downright obnoxious. “Grr. Hrrumph. How convenient is that?”
“Convenient enough to collect insurance money,” was Nate’s reply as he added creamer to his coffee. “Kimberlynn showed us the insurance claim. Documented with a before and after photo of the jar in question.”
“Something’s rotten in Denmark,” I said. “Or should I say Antwerp?”
“I think the complete Shakespearian quote is ‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,’” Augusta said. “But I’ll wager the Lillian was the first stop on the corruption train. Phee and I noticed another buyer in the Phoenix area—Marque Living. They’ve got a Scottsdale office.”
Nate looked at Marshall, then Augusta and me, and finally back to Marshall. “How’d we ever manage to conduct an investigation without these two?”
“Why do you think it took us so long?” Marshall asked. “Marque Living was on our radar. We read that list of Rolo’s and didn’t miss a trick. Paid a lovely visit to their corporate headquarters. Remind me that if I ever get old enough for one of those places, you’ll stand me up by the side of a barn, take out a pistol, and shoot.”
I swallowed. “Pretty awful?”
“Oh, not their places. I’m sure they’re fine. The independence you have to give up. We read one of their contracts. Might as well sign over your brain so someone else can do all the thinking for you.”
“What about their Quentin Dussler purchase? Did they admit to it? Do they have it on display or did it—”
“Oh yeah. It did. Met with the same mishap as the one from the Lillian.”
Nate took another sip of coffee and gave Marshall a nod. “Do I dare tell them?”
“What more can you tell us?” My voice suddenly got louder.
“Marque Living collected beaucoup bucks from their insurance claim. Same company as the Lillian, too. Both places paid for a special collectibles addendum.”
“Doesn’t that strike you as a bit odd?”
Before either of them could answer my question, the phone rang and Augusta picked it up. “It’s for you, Mr. Williams. Deputy Ranston from the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office.”
I know it’s technically impossible, but my skin began to crawl. Deputy Ranston and I didn’t have the best relationship. Heck, we didn’t have a relationship. He was one of the investigating deputies, along with his partner, Deputy Bowman, when a dead body was found at the Stardust Theater last winter. A dead body that belonged to someone in one of the Sun City West plays. I was sort of “working the scene” because my mother was in that play. Unfortunately, Deputy Ranston thought I’d overstepped my bounds on more than one occasion.
Forcing myself to be still, I listened to Nate’s end of the call, but couldn’t ascertain much. The only words he said were “yep,” “uh-huh,” “no kidding,” and “thanks.”
As soon as he hung up, he got as far as “Got a report from Gila County” when two people walked in the door. My mother and Shirley Johnson. All of us froze, with the exception of Augusta, who immediately busied herself at her desk.
“Mom! Shirley! What are you doing here?”
Nate and Marshall managed to say hello or something to that effect when my mother cut in. “Shirley and I decided to have afternoon tea at the Victorian Teahouse in the historic district. And since your office is on the way home, we thought we’d drop in and pay a visit.”
Pay a visit? We aren’t a historical site. “And?” I stood perfectly still, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“And, since we’re here, I’d like to know if any progress has been made on that note with Lucinda’s and my name on it.”
I opened my eyes wide and gave Nate the look that could only mean one thing—do not tell her there was more than one note. And if you do, don’t tell her what Sharon Smyth’s note really said.
He winked, walked over to my mother, and placed an arm around her. “It’ll be all right, Harriet. I know how disconcerting this must be for you. But rest assured, it’s probably something inconsequential.”
My mother wasn’t buying it. “Can you say without hesitation that a crazed killer isn’t about to make Lucinda and me the next victims?”
“I seriously doubt it. Of course, that doesn’t mean taking any foolish chances like leaving your car or house unlocked.”
“She’s got a watchdog,” Shirley said. “And a screamer device.”
“Okay, then,” I said. “It’s all settled. The dog will bark, the screamer will go off, and all will be right with the world.” Unless the dog pees on himself again.
My mother glared at me. “No need for sarcasm.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. The minute Nate or Marshall hear anything, I’ll call you.”
My mother took Shirley by the arm and led her out the door. “Nice seeing all of you. And as for you, Nate, make that note a priority. Understand?”
The men were grasping for words as the door closed behind the women.
I watched as they walked away. “Wow. That was unexpected.”
Nate nodded. “And unnerving. This day keeps getting more and more unpredictable. At least we might have a real clue from your escapade to Punkin Center. Deputy Ranston informed me the Gila County Sheriff’s Office found some evidence by that outcrop of rock you discovered.”
“What? What was it?”
“They were able to match up the squiggly lines from Quentin’s signature to the layering form
ation on the rock. Quentin, as you recall, used arrows on some of those squiggles.”
“So? What did they find?”
Augusta, who had stopped for a moment to glance at her computer monitor, looked up. “You’d better tell her, Mr. Williams, before she has paroxysms. That’s Greek for having a fit. It was in today’s crossword puzzle.”
Nate started to open his mouth but wound up laughing to the point that Marshall had to take over. “They followed the terrain and located the entrance to an old copper mine. A few feet inside they found two more empty water bottles from the Lillian.”
“That’s it? Water bottles?”
“One of them had lipstick along the edge. They sent it to their forensic lab to see if any DNA could be extracted. Of course, that could take months.”
“Did they find anything else?”
“Too dangerous to venture inside.”
“So now what?” I asked.
“Gila County Sheriff’s deputies will be monitoring the area for unusual activity.”
I shrugged. “So that’s it, huh? More water bottles and the banking account information Rolo found?”
“That’s all we’ve got, kiddo,” Nate said. “The Lillian, Marque Living, and that third place in California. What was the name of it again?”
“Serenity Brook,” Marshall said. “Also a resort retirement complex. But their Quentin Dussler piece is alive and on display in the lobby of their Palm Springs location.”
I shook my head. “Not for long, it isn’t. Doesn’t anyone think it’s more than coincidental that two luxury retirement places bought original pieces of art only to have them break? And don’t tell me it was because of the insurance money. I mean, why pay an exorbitant amount of money for a clay jar only to collect the same amount from the insurance? Both places showed you the claims, right? They weren’t lying about the amount they paid.”
Marshall gave me one of his adorable smiles that creep partway up from his lips. “What are you getting at, Phee?”
“There has to be more to it. And if Augusta can stop looking at her monitor long enough to hand me the phone number associated with Serenity Brook, I’m about to find out.”
