Blood Rubies Read online

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  This is for my niece Marci Gleason. And of course, for Joe.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Acknowledgments

  Other Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries by Jane K. Cleland

  About the Author

  Copyright

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. While there is a Seacoast Region in New Hampshire, there is no town called Rocky Point, and many other geographic liberties have been taken.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ana Yartsin stood beside one of her custom Fabergé-egg-shaped wedding cakes, unfazed by the frenetic activity swirling around her. The film crew was larger than I’d anticipated—I counted twenty-two people, including a uniformed security guard—and they all seemed to be doing things with frantic urgency. A young woman with pink hair and a star tattoo on her neck dabbed at Ana’s cheek with a fluffy powder puff. Someone named Mack called to someone named Vinnie to check the light meter. The security guard, a big guy with a crew cut and a gun on his hip, stood near Ana, his eyes on the move. Timothy Brenin, the producer/director, dashed up to talk to a short man with spiky yellow hair carrying a clipboard, then called to Mack that we had another hour of good sun.

  Timothy, tall and lean like a greyhound, dressed all in black like the New Yorker he was, approached Ana with a huge smile. I’d met Timothy briefly last week when I’d stopped by to order a cake for my office manager Gretchen’s baby shower. He and Ana had asked me to come back and place the order again, this time on camera. They were in the early stages of filming a TV pilot for a reality show based on Ana’s life, capitalizing on her dual role as a newly minted celebrity pastry chef with an ability to communicate Martha Stewartesque tips for gracious living and a recently divorced young woman ready for a fresh start.

  Timothy spotted me, and his smile grew even broader. “Good to see you again, Josie!” He turned to Ana. “Why can’t everyone be like her—on time and smiling?”

  Ana laughed. “Because she’s one of a kind. Lucky us!”

  Timothy squeezed my arm affectionately, then turned toward Ana. “I just took a call from People wanting to know the skinny on the show.”

  “Oh, Timothy!” Ana exclaimed. “What a coup!”

  “I knew your life would be perfect for a reality show!”

  Ana laughed. “Talk about an upside-down compliment. My life is so chaotic, it’s ideal for a prime-time exposé.”

  “True, true.” Timothy flashed another grin, then flitted away calling something to Mack about moving cameras to catch the sun. Vinnie wheeled a camera to the left. “No, no! To the right. The right!”

  Ana’s eyes twinkled. “Survive a nasty divorce and a breach with your father, start to bake wedding and special occasion cakes based on Fabergé eggs, move to a small town on the rugged coast of New Hampshire where you don’t know a soul, start a business on a wing and a prayer, and you, too, can have a reality TV show.”

  I chuckled. “I think the fact that you’ve won a gazillion awards for your pastries might have a little something to do with it, to say nothing of your charisma. Oh, let’s not forget that your Fabergé egg cakes aren’t just gorgeous, they’re unbelievably delicious, too.”

  “You’re very sweet, Josie, but I cannot tell a lie—I’ve only won a couple of awards.”

  I waved her correction away. “You’re destined for great success.” I raised my chin and spoke in a tone of mock superiority. “Do not argue with me. I know these things.”

  She laughed, a pretty tinkling sound. “Thank you.” She squeezed my hand. “You sure know how to puff a girl up.”

  Timothy stood in the center of the driveway and did a 180-degree survey, taking in the position of the ribbons of thick black cables and the pole-mounted overhead lights and reflective panels. He nodded and turned toward Ana. “All right, darling, get ready for your closing monologue.”

  The yellow-haired man hurried over to help Ana down from her canvas-backed director’s chair and led her to a spot near the edge of her undulating lawn overlooking the serene sun-flecked ocean. She wore a lightweight baby blue buttoned-to-the-neck cashmere cardigan with a blue and tan floral-patterned swirly skirt and tan pumps. Her shoulder-length honey gold hair shone in the midday sun. She was my age, midthirties, but she looked younger. I moved off to the side, out of the way.

  Timothy shouted, “Rolling!” A moment later he called, “Action!”

  Ana smiled at the camera as if it were a friend. “Heather and Jason did exactly the right thing in talking to me at length about their dream wedding cake. They didn’t use vague words like ‘beautiful.’ They were specific. They wanted a milk chocolate cake with gold-colored creamy frosting. They wanted the swan boats from Boston Public Garden, where Jason proposed, represented in the decorations.” Ana paused for a second, letting her words sink in. “Here’s the lesson: Everyone involved in helping you plan your wedding or special event wants nothing more than for you to be thrilled with the result—but they can’t read your mind. You need to know what you want, and you need to communicate it clearly. Do that”—she paused again and smiled, a dazzler—“and your dreams will come true.”

  Three seconds later, Timothy yelled, “Cut! Fabulous, Ana, just perfect!”

  My scene was scheduled next.

  “Let me give you a quick once-over, Josie.” The pink-haired woman appeared from the left and stared at my face.

  “I just came from the makeup tent,” I told her.

  “And it shows. You look awesome! You just need a tiny de-shining.”

  Her feathery puff tickled, and I giggled.

  Once I was sufficiently de-shined, I joined Ana, waiting for me by the lawn. “You’re a hard act to follow, Ana. I hope I don’t mess up.”

  “You’ll do great.”

  “Just act naturally,” Timothy instructed.

  I laughed. “Right. Like it’s an everyday occurrence that I’m filmed ordering a cake.”

  “Once you’ve completed your appraisal of the Fabergé Spring Egg snow globe, Timothy wants to record us discussing it.”

  “At least I’ll be on comfortable ground. Compared to this, talking about antiques is easy. Speaking of which, are we still on schedule?”

  Ana held up crossed fingers. “Dad checked in for his flight. He’ll be here tomorrow, snow globe in hand.”

  “Is t
he egg as beautiful as Ana says?” Timothy asked, an anticipatory gleam in his eye.

  “From the photos, oh my. Picture this: a huge, perfectly round snow globe. Visible through the glass is a baby pink enamel egg. On the egg is an enamel and emerald tree, dripping with diamond and rose quartz cherry blossoms. When the globe is gently shaken, silvery slivers create an illusion of rain. You push a spring-loaded latch and boom! The egg pops open. Inside is a gold-and silver-colored basket filled with five ruby red tulips.”

  Timothy rubbed his hands together and made a lip-smacking noise. “I can’t wait to see it.” Something in the background caught his eye, and he shouted to Mack. “Back up camera three for a long shot. I want to get Josie walking up the driveway toward the garage. Up, not down.”

  “It’s a kitchen, not a garage!” Ana protested, laughing.

  “Absolutely, darlin’! Josie, you start walking toward the structure that looks like a garage from the end of the driveway. You’re excited. You’re hopeful that Ana’s cake will make Gretchen happy. Got it?”

  “Got it,” I said, feeling awkward, hoping I wouldn’t get tongue-tied or stupidly giggly, wanting to do well for Ana. My mouth went dry. I hate being in the limelight.

  “See ya in a sec,” Ana said merrily. She walked to the office-cum-studio-cum-commercial-kitchen she’d built in her detached garage, a stopgap until her bakery business was large enough to justify a full-blown production facility, and disappeared inside.

  Everyone was looking at me. My heart pounded against my ribs and my throat closed and my cheeks burned.

  Timothy stood off to the side, near the pathway that led to the house. “Pretend we aren’t here, Josie.”

  “Okay,” I said, then started coughing. “Sorry about that.”

  “No prob!” Timothy said. “Take your time.”

  The yellow-haired man appeared with a glass of water, and after I’d sipped some, the pink-haired woman studied my lips, then nodded.

  “Start again,” Timothy said.

  Fake it till you make it, my dad used to say. “Okay,” I said, and this time my voice sounded like me, like a calm and controlled me. I started up the driveway toward the renovated garage.

  “Rolling!” Timothy yelled. “Action!”

  The sun was bright for March. A soft breeze rustled the tall grasses that grew along the property edge. I reminded myself to smile. I felt silly smiling at nothing, but I did it anyway.

  Ana stepped out as if I’d called her. Her warm and welcoming smile reached her eyes and drew a more genuine smile in response from me.

  “Josie! I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Thanks, Ana. What a beautiful location.”

  “Isn’t it?” She gazed out over the ocean. “When I was a kid, this was where we spent summers. I’m delighted to be back in Rocky Point, to be a permanent resident.” She turned to face me. “Come on in and tell me how I can help.”

  We stepped inside together. The walls and ceiling were painted snow white; the chairs were persimmon and cobalt. I could hear faint clinking and whirrs from the bakers at work in the rear.

  “Oh, wow,” I said, looking around. “It’s so elegant.”

  A score of mahogany easels positioned in four diagonal rows showed two-part photos, fronts and backs, of various Fabergé-egg-shaped cakes, some large enough to serve a hundred people, most sized as individual portions. Just as each of the eggs Peter Carl Fabergé made for the Russian imperial family from 1885 to 1917 held at least one surprise, so too did Ana’s cakes. From one side, the cakes appeared to be ornately decorated ovals. From the other side, the “surprise” was visible, positioned in a hollowed-out area reminiscent of an open-air theater. The surprises varied according to the occasion, the season, and Ana’s whimsy; they included bouquets of flowers, a throne, a woodland scene, and a traditional bride and groom exchanging vows. All decorative elements were crafted out of frosting.

  After I’d walked the aisles taking in all the options, Ana asked, “What’s the occasion?”

  “My office manager, Gretchen, is having a baby. I’m throwing a surprise Jack and Jill baby shower for her and her husband.” I told her the date and grinned. “I expect about thirty people. I think Gretchen and Jack would love one of your Fabergé egg cakes.”

  “Wonderful! Do you have a theme in mind?”

  “Hawaii. That’s where Gretchen and her husband met and fell in love.”

  “How lovely. We could do a couple gazing at a baby in a lei-draped cradle with some palm trees and turquoise water in the background.”

  “That sounds perfect. Maybe with a rising moon.”

  “I love that idea!”

  Ten minutes later, after I selected pineapple cake with orange-mango frosting, signed the order form, and left a deposit, Ana walked me out.

  “Cut!” Timothy called. “We’ve got it. That’s a wrap. Take fifteen and we’ll pick up with Ana’s Tips for Gracious Living.” He squeezed Ana’s hands. “Ana, you just keep getting better!” To me, he added, “Well done, Josie! Thanks.”

  I felt light-headed with relief that it was over. “You’re welcome.”

  “Do you have a minute?” Ana asked me as I turned to leave. “I’d love to introduce you to my friend, Heather, and her fiancé, Jason. I’ve known Heather for years. Jason is an investment guy—Jason Ferris—do you know him? You might have seen him on TV.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He’s a pretty big deal in some circles.”

  “You sound skeptical.”

  Ana laughed. “Not so much skeptical as jealous. All the time they’ve been dating, a couple of years now, I’ve just been trying to cover the rent. Here he is, the building-personal-wealth guru. Having ‘wealth’ is a foreign concept.”

  “My gut tells me that’s about to change for you.”

  “From your mouth to God’s ears.” I followed her across the driveway to the fieldstone path that led to the porch. “I don’t mean to sound disingenuous.” She laughed, half self-deprecating and half thrilled. “The last six months have been incredible. I have to remind myself that it’s okay to celebrate a little.”

  “Is that why you started your snow globe collection?” I asked, thinking of the two snow globes she’d already delivered to us for appraisal, one a Victorian Christmas scene, the other featuring a winsome black-haired beauty ice-skating with a handsome cavalier on a glistening frozen pond.

  She’d purchased both at a Midwest antiques store because she’d fallen in love with them, one of the joys of collecting. They were sold “as is,” with no information provided or available about the objects’ history or authenticity. From the lightbulb logo on the base, we were hopeful that the Christmas scene was an original Vienna Snow Globes creation. The other one remained a mystery.

  “Yes, actually,” Ana said. “A thousand dollars may not sound like much to some people, but to me, that I had an extra thousand dollars in the budget … well, it’s huge. If you tell me they’re only worth two dollars each…” She laughed. “Let’s not go there.”

  I wished I could reassure her, but we never revealed partial information. It wasn’t unusual for an antique that seemed promising at the start of the appraisal to turn out to be phony, and vice versa.

  After a few seconds, I asked, “How do you know Heather?”

  “We’ve been friends since we were kids—our families spent summers up here. She and I lived together in Boston for a couple of years after college, until she got serious with a guy and moved in with him—my brother, actually.”

  “That sounds as if it might be awkward.”

  “Not until Peter caught her in bed with Jason.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Luckily, civility and maturity prevailed.”

  We climbed onto the covered porch. Ana reached for the doorknob, then paused. She stood quietly for several seconds, looking down as if she were trying to figure out whether her shoes were too pointy. When she raised her eyes, I saw a complicated mix of emotions. Conce
rn and apprehension, certainly, but there was more—in addition to worry, I saw anger.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “I just fibbed. Civility and maturity didn’t rule, at least not at first. Peter punched Jason so hard he broke his nose.”

  “Yikes.”

  “I know. Fortunately, Jason decided not to press charges.” She shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I don’t blame Jason. The media would have had a field day. A straight-arrow TV personality ends up on the losing end of a brawl over another man’s live-in girlfriend. He’d be a laughingstock, which wouldn’t suit Jason’s view of himself at all.”

  “Definitely not good for business. How’s Peter doing?”

  “Fine, I guess. He sure dates a lot.” Ana grinned. “They tend to have curvy figures and names like Trixie and Bambi, if you catch my drift.”

  “Not necessarily wife material, but an effective antidote to heartbreak?”

  She chuckled. “That’s one way to put it.”

  “What about you and Heather? Did it affect your relationship?”

  “Totally. I didn’t speak to her for a year. I’d trusted her completely. That she could do something like that shook me to my booties.”

  “Like an earthquake.”

  “Exactly. Ground I thought was stable wasn’t.”

  “Yet here she is, helping you with your show.”

  Ana turned and stared out over the ocean. “She called me out of the blue last summer. I’d just split with my husband.” She shrugged and turned back to face me. “Since Peter’s doing all right, it’s stupid for me to hold a grudge.”

  “Good for you. Not holding grudges is a sign of real maturity.”

  “Do you think so?” She smiled. “Let’s go in so you can meet the guilty parties.”

  All change is hard, I thought. Even when the change takes you back to familiar ground.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ana’s house was a surprising mix of traditional and contemporary design. The cottage itself was one of a dozen built by William Carlington between 1814 and 1833. Since that time, it had been completely overhauled. Walls had been removed to create an open layout. Recessed lighting and energy-efficient windows had been installed. Directly in front of the entrance, a fieldstone wall, original to the house, contained a fireplace large enough to roast an ox. All the furniture was ultramodern, mostly made of sleek white leather and steel.