Blood Rubies Page 8

  “Thanks.”

  She sipped this one, then sighed. “I needed this.”

  “A lot going on?”

  “It’s not that. It’s that I’m royally pissed off. Boot-kicking angry.”

  “At what?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the worst of it.” She tossed back the whiskey and poured herself another, a three-incher this time. “That’s why I was in your woods.” She laughed mirthlessly, self-deprecatingly. “Talking to God, I guess you could say.” She shook her head as she refilled her glass again. “I went to that church to speak to the pastor, a nice enough man. Do you know him?”

  “Ted Bauer, yes.”

  “I keep snapping at everyone from the man at the funeral parlor while I was making arrangements to ship Jason’s body home and my mother to waitresses and hotel housekeepers. It’s exhausting and frustrating and embarrassing. So being a gal of action, I got a list of nearby religious institutions from the front desk and starting calling. You know it’s not so easy to find a pastor interested in talking to a stranger around here?”

  “Really? That surprises me.”

  She shrugged. “I just said that to be mean. Do you see what I was saying? I’m acting out, and I know it, and I can’t stop. I only called three places, a Jewish temple, a Catholic church, and the place next door, a Congressional church, I think it is. I went in alphabetical order. The rabbi at Beth Shalom is in Boston with a youth group. The priest from the Church of the Holy Family is at Rocky Point Hospital giving last rites to someone, then making rounds. Ted Bauer was available, so I jumped in the car and raced off to see him. He was great, actually. He didn’t criticize me for being angry. He pointed out that I had a lot to be angry about, the loss of dreams, the end of hope.”

  “The end of hope? That seems a little extreme.”

  “Does it?” She unwrapped a cheese wedge and placed it on a soda cracker. She popped the bite in her mouth and chewed like she wanted to kill it. “Does it indeed?”

  “Did he offer any advice?”

  “He didn’t say that thing about the end of hope. I did. Advice? Sure. Get some exercise. Fresh air. The anger will pass, he said. It’s a natural stage of grieving. Which means it may not pass for years. You should see my mother. She’s been a widow for a year and she’s a mess.” She flipped her hand backward, pushing air over her right shoulder, communicating a dismissive “whatever.” She took a cluster of grapes and ate one. “That’s why I went for a walk. The woods are pretty—but you know that. It’s your woods, right? I like the shushing sound pine needles make when you walk on them.” She paused to eat another grape. “I didn’t care where it went. Then the path ended and poof, here I am. Like magic. He also said to keep talking.” She shrugged again. “What is he going to say, right? ‘Snap out of it’? ‘Pull yourself together’? ‘Time heals all wounds’? It’s hopeless. I’m hopeless.” She closed her eyes for a moment, the muscles along her jawline bullet hard. “Sorry. I’m not myself.”

  “No need to apologize. You can say anything you want to me.”

  “Really?” She opened her eyes and finished the grapes. “Now there’s an offer I ought to take advantage of.” She wrapped her arms around herself and leaned forward. “The Josie confessional.” She sighed. “I’m not religious. Isn’t that funny? I’m not religious, but when I wanted to talk to someone, I didn’t think of a therapist … I thought of a pastor.” She reached for her glass and finished the whiskey, then poured another portion. “I’m a mess.”

  “You’re not a mess. Grief is messy.”

  She stared at her drink as if she were having trouble recognizing what it was, or perhaps she was hoping the amber liquid held the answer. After a few seconds, she raised her eyes to mine. “I don’t miss Jason at all. Not even a teeny tiny bit. Isn’t that odd?”

  “Maybe you’re missing him so much you’re angry, and all you can feel at this point is the anger. Later, you’ll feel sad.”

  “Do you think so?” she asked, sounding dubious.

  “I don’t know.”

  She sighed again, heavily, then swigged the whiskey, finishing it in one gulp. She coughed, a small one, then placed the glass neatly on the tray.

  “Time to go.” She unwrapped her legs and reached for a boot, nearly toppling off the couch. “Whoa. I better take it slow.”

  Her motions were methodical, as if she were thinking about each step first, then doing it. Pull the boot toward me. Straighten it so the toes face out. Put my foot in. Tighten the laces. Tie a bow. She got her boots on, then stood and clutched the sofa’s back to steady herself. She experimented with walking, and when she didn’t collapse, she smiled.

  “All right, then,” she said. “I’m on a roll. Thanks, Josie, for your above-and-beyond hospitality to a near stranger.”

  She was having trouble with sibilants. “Hospitality” sounded more like “hoshpitality,” and “stranger” came out as “shranger.”

  “How about topping off that whiskey with a coffee before you go? We can make cappuccino or espresso, if you prefer.”

  “No, thanks. I have to go. My mother will be worried. I didn’t tell her I was leaving the hotel. I just slammed out of the room. Chuck and Sara will be worried, too. I blew off lunch.”

  “No prob. I’ll drive you.”

  “No need. I left my car at the church. I’ll walk back and drive myself.”

  “Better not. Whiskey and steering wheels don’t mix.”

  She glared at me. “You’re so judgmental, Josie.”

  “Sorry about that … but I can’t let you drive.”

  “It’s none of your business!”

  “It is, actually. Since I served you whiskey, there’s a liability thing. I can’t let you get behind the wheel.”

  She walked toward the door, stepping carefully, trying to hide her sway, keeping her chin up. “I’m fine.”

  “I’m sure you are. Regardless, let’s agree to let me do the driving.”

  “No.”

  I suspected that trying to reason with someone in her condition was a waste of time. “Please … let me drive or call you a cab.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I can’t.”

  She was not amused. She stomped down the spiral staircase. Two steps down, she slipped and flew outward, landing hard on her bottom three steps down, the backs of her calves slamming into the riser.

  “Heather!” I ran to her, stepping around her and going down three more steps. I looked up at her. “Are you all right?”

  Without saying a word, she stood up, grasped the iron railing and walked down the stairs one at a time, placing her feet carefully, consciously. She walked slowly across the warehouse. I trailed behind. When she reached the warehouse door, she ripped it open, sprinted across the office, and darted outside. I stayed close. She was running fast now, faster than I would have thought she could, heading for the woods. The strong midday sunlight penetrated the tall bare trees that stretched high above our heads, dappling the path, lighting the way.

  When we reached the church parking lot, she was half a dozen steps ahead of me. She ran straight for her car, a Lexus. Her chest heaving from her exertion, she poked her car key at the lock, unable to fit it in, forgetting, perhaps, that all she had to do was push the unlock button on the remote.

  When she spotted me coming up behind her, she spun sideways, hurled her key ring into the side garden, crossed her arms over her chest, and said, “Happy now?”

  “It’s okay,” I said, breathing hard. I stood ten feet away from her and patted the air, hoping to reassure her, to communicate that I had no intention of attacking or trapping her.

  She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said so softly I had trouble hearing her. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry.” Her voice lowered further until her words were indistinguishable, a shadow of a sound, a hint of intention. “I’m sorry,” I think she said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She collapsed onto her car’s hood, weeping, her sobs coming in big, gust
y waves. A few seconds later, without warning, she began pounding the hood, the thuds echoing and reverberating in the still, dry air. She stopped as suddenly as she started and slid down the car, landing in a heap on the ground, her tears falling silently now. She slapped the pavement; then her fingers curled into fists and she pounded it.

  Ted stepped out of the back door and smiled, glad to see me, unaware of the drama playing out behind the car. His hairline had receded some over the last year, and he’d gained another few pounds on his already comfortable frame. He looked cherubic.

  “Josie!” he called. “What a nice surprise.”

  “It’s Heather.” I pointed to where she lay. “She’s pretty upset.”

  His expression shifted from jovial to concerned, and he hurried across the lot to join me at Heather’s car. When he saw her lying on the ground, her hands in loose fists now, still softly pounding the asphalt, he stopped short and looked at me, an unspoken question in his eyes.

  “She walked through the woods to my place. She had a few drinks, enough so I thought she shouldn’t drive. One thing led to another … I don’t know what to do.”

  Ted made a tch-tch sound and reached for Heather’s arms. “It’s all right, my dear. Come inside.”

  Heather didn’t resist him, but she didn’t assist him either. She remained a deadweight. I took one arm while Ted took the other, and together we hoisted her upright and leaned her against the hood. Rivulets of mascara crisscrossed her cheeks. The three of us walked slowly toward the church. Inside, Ted led the way to the kitchen, a cheerful old-fashioned room.

  As Ted got her situated at the round oak table, I said, “I’ll get her keys. She tossed them in the bushes.”

  “Good idea,” Ted said, squatting beside her. “I’m glad you came back, Heather.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I slipped out of the room, relieved that Ted was there, knowing I was out of my depth.

  I found the keys under a hydrangea bush and scooped them up, then hurried back to the kitchen. Heather wasn’t there.

  “Heather wanted to clean up,” Ted explained. “I asked Pam to go with her.”

  “Good. I suspect Pam is just what the doctor ordered.” Ted’s secretary, Pam, was closer to seventy than sixty, a latter-day hippie. Her gray hair reached nearly to her waist, and she usually wore peasant dresses and Birkenstocks. She had a warm nonjudgmental smile. Heather couldn’t be in better hands.

  “I agree.” Ted shook his head sadly. “Grief is a spiteful beast with sharp teeth and long claws.”

  I handed him her keys. “I’m glad she’s here with you.”

  “Hopefully she’ll agree to stay for a while, to rest and talk some more.”

  “She told me she was concerned about her mom, that she left the hotel without telling her she was going. And some friends. Jason’s best friend and his wife. She said she blew off lunch with them.”

  “I’ll ask if she’d like us to call them.”

  “When she’s ready to go, I’ll be glad to drive her.”

  “Thank you, Josie. We can see she gets back safely.”

  “You’re a wonderful man, Ted.”

  His cheeks reddened at the compliment, and his eyes brightened. “I don’t know about that. I just empathize. Losing someone you love suddenly—I think it’s among the hardest things we have to endure.”

  Memories of loss pricked my heart. Oh, Dad.

  “She’ll be fine,” Ted continued, and from his expression, I could tell he was trying to reassure me. “We all learn to cope. We all have a far greater capacity to cope than we realize.”

  “Coping takes such energy,” I said.

  Ted patted my arm. “It does, doesn’t it? Have you ever noticed, though, how you cope and cope and cope, and then one day, you realize you’re not coping anymore? You’ve pushed through the grief or whatever and you’re on the other side, back in the land of the living.”

  “The land of the living—to be awake, to be aware, to care once again.”

  “To be with God. Psalm 27. If you’ll wait just a moment, let me ask Heather if she’d prefer that you call her mother, not us. She might want her presence here to remain private. You can honestly say that she decided to spend a little time chatting with you.”

  “Of course.” I smiled, amused at his earnest effort to stick to the truth. “And what will I say when her mom asks to speak to her?”

  He smiled back. “That she asked you to call since she doesn’t feel like explaining anything just yet.”

  “And her mom will be in the next cab across town.”

  “Where you can greet her with the news that Heather decided to go for a walk.”

  “You’re a smooth talker for a preacher-man.”

  “Thanks,” Ted said, smiling, pleased. “I’ll leave you here while I check with her.”

  He went upstairs, and I sat at the table to wait, idly stroking the satiny, well-rubbed wood. The old-style white tiles that ran from the floor to the ceiling gleamed. The oak floor was covered here and there with cheerful multicolored rag rugs. The stainless steel tables and appliances—the only upgrades in the place—glistened.

  Pam came in, smiling. “Heather’s calmer now. She asked Ted to call her mom. Before you go, would you like a cup of tea?”

  “No, thanks. I need to get back.” I stood up. “How is she, really?”

  “Jason’s death hit her hard. She seems to think she should be able to carry on as usual with no break in her routine.” Pam shook her head and sighed. “She just keeps saying she’s sorry.”

  “She’s lucky to be here with you and Ted.”

  We shook hands, and I made my way to the pathway, glad to have a little time to think, glad to smell the fresh new leaves and budding bushes, the scent of hope. As I walked, I wondered what exactly Heather was sorry about—her emotional meltdown, her unbridled anger, or something else.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I was still at the church when Ellis stopped by my office, and he didn’t leave anything except a message—call him ASAP.

  “I’m sorry I missed you,” I told him and thought of Heather. Her apologies stood out because she repeated the words over and over again and because no one knew what she was referring to, but lots of people, especially women, use those words as filler, as accommodation. “Something came up. I’m here now.”

  “Great. I’m on my way.”

  Ten minutes later, Ellis delivered the shattered remains of what I feared was the Fabergé Spring Egg snow globe. He’d placed five one-gallon clear plastic evidence bags in a cardboard box large enough for boots, which he lowered onto the guest table in the front office. He held up one of the bags and read the label.

  “Enamel.”

  He returned the bag to the box and picked up another.

  “Metal.”

  He repeated the process with the other three bags: “Wood,” followed by “Gems,” ending with “Glass.”

  He slid the box toward me. “The techs asked me to tell you that while they tried to segregate the pieces by material, they’re certain there are crossovers.”

  “Understood.” I eyed the bags. “This is even worse than I expected.”

  “All you can do is the best you can do.”

  “So true. Any news about Ana’s house key? Or the soil?”

  “The technicians tell me they’re working as quickly as they can.”

  “Any progress with the interviews?”

  “Everyone is being cooperative.”

  Ellis had a gift for nonanswers.

  “Even Peter?” I asked, smiling, teasing him.

  He smiled back. “People get emotional. We understand that.”

  I couldn’t think of a way to phrase a question so he’d answer it. Instead, I took photos of the bags and printed out a receipt.

  Ellis sat to read it. He signed it and handed it over. “Are you going to be able to tell anything from this junk?”

  I smiled, a cocky one this time. “Oh, yeah.”

  *
* *

  I started with the enamel. Wearing plastic gloves and using tweezers, I extracted the largest piece, about the size of my thumbnail. The topside was pink, and the reverse side was shiny gold. Using the faded photographs attached to the previous appraisal as a reference, I compared the color. It was impossible to tell if they matched. The enamel I was holding was a delicate seashell pink. The one in the photos had yellowed, as expected from eighteen-year-old Polaroids.

  “What do you say, Hank?” I asked. “Shall I get right to the acid test?”

  He’d flopped over in his basket and was lying on his back, with his four paws sticking up in the air. He was solidly asleep. I had to resist an impulse to give him a tummy rub.

  I applied a drop of nitric acid to the gold back and watched it turn milky.

  I gawked. “What?”

  I tweezed out a second piece, this one the size of my pinky nail, and applied the nitric acid. It, too, turned an opaque cloudy white.

  I leaned back in my chair, my mouth hanging open, stunned. The metal wasn’t gold.

  I opened the bag labeled WOOD. The cracked and split pieces were mostly the size of large splinters. Holding one sideways to view a cross-section, it was evident I wasn’t looking at solid wood. A thin veneer of what appeared to be mahogany covered what I was certain was medium-density fiberboard.

  “MDF?” I said aloud. “How can that be?”

  It was possible that Fabergé used a base made of cheap wood to support the illusion that his egg was an inexpensive novelty, but there was no way he could have used a product that wasn’t invented until the 1960s, more than forty years after his death.

  I turned the splinter over, staring at it. It was possible that the base had been replaced. Why? Had someone broken it at some point over the years? I consulted the past appraisal. The base was listed as solid mahogany. How could the base have broken without damaging the glass dome and the egg? I shook my head. It didn’t make any sense. I looked back at the enamel pieces. It seemed that the entire thing was a fake. But why? I shook my head. I didn’t know enough to begin figuring out the why of the situation; what I needed to do was finish analyzing what I had in front of me. I needed information, not conjectures.