A Steal of a Deal (23 page)

A memory of the last thing I saw before my world blew up flies through my head. The cop next to my car . . . his hand reaching for my door . . .

“Is your officer . . .” I can’t make myself put my fear into words.

Chief Clark winces in obvious pain. “He’s alive. Barely.”

I collapse back onto the bed. The impact pulses through every inch of my body, but I know my pain is nothing compared to what that poor man’s going through. “And all because I unlocked my car . . .”

“Oh no, Andie!” Aunt Weeby places a cool hand against my hot cheek. “None of this is your fault, so don’t go picking up any burdens that aren’t yours to haul around.”

“But—”

“She’s right, Miss Andie,” the chief says. “Fault lies with the animal who rigged up your new car. I know I’ve had to come down hard on you a time or two myself, but this time, you’re all the way out in the clear. I don’t think you’d blow yourself up.”

His vote of conditional confidence doesn’t make me feel any better. “It was still my car. He said the door wasn’t closed right and went to show me . . . I clicked the lock, thinking it wasn’t working right.”

“That electronic lock is the most common trick to blast a car with,” Chief Clark says. “And it doesn’t take long to wire the thing. Where’d you park it overnight?”

I give him a crooked smile. “Out on Miss Mona’s driveway. Max insisted on driving Aunt Weeby. I don’t know why. By the time we left, I wasn’t shaking anymore. I could have driven us over. But whoever did it had plenty of time to set it up.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Max run a finger over the fat, white bandage on his head. “There’s too much going on for my liking.” He turns to the chief. “What have you found out?”

“Not a whole lot, I’m afraid.” Chief Clark sends me a look. “But there’s plenty I’m thinking right about now.”

I raise my head again. “My backpack . . . ?”

He nods. “Seems to me, all this violent stuff is all about you.”

“Hey! That’s not fair—”

“Lissen me out here, Miss Andie.” When I reluctantly nod, he goes on. “Nothing much happens normal-like, and then you take off to traipse through some other weird land, and
bam!
”—he slams a fist into his other palm—“we have us a truckload of destruction following you around.”

“But you just said it wasn’t my fault.”

The chief rubs his stubby nose. “I’m not so sure it rightly is. But sure as I’m standing here, looking at you and Mr. Matthews all banged up, this is all about that there trip of yours. While you were out there, did you go messing with foreign folks’ jewelry again?”

I shake my head. “No—”

Max nods. “Yes!”

“Now, Max, dear,” Miss Mona says. “Andie didn’t have any contact with any gemstones on this last trip. All she did was go film some empty ol’ mines. I don’t think that’s messing with much of anything, do you?”

“I just thought of something,” my cohost says. “What if she had Glory film something she shouldn’t have filmed? The chief said the film’s about all that’s missing from the studio.”

With a wriggle, I ease up again. “Allison’s makeup bag’s gone too.”

Chief Clark reaches for the nape of his neck, looks down at the floor, and “uh-huhs.” Then he pins me with another of his looks. “What else happened out in that there Kashmir?”

Max crosses his arms. “Yes, Andie. What else did happen while we were out in Kashmir? Are you going to tell the chief about Farooq and Xheng Xhi? Or do I have to do it all?”

The chief’s expression turns suspicious—a familiar turn I’ve seen before. “What’s a Far—ook or a Shen . . . Cheng . . . whatever you’re talking about?”

“Why, Donald, dear,” Aunt Weeby offers. “They’re the saddest thing. I’m afraid they’re a couple Kashmir boys gone bad. Seems they got theirselves all caught up in crime. Smuggling, I really think. Then something must’ve gone all catawampus between them and the rest of the thieves—you know how that goes.”

She’s at my side, nodding, an all-knowing expression on her face.
Oooh-oh-oh-oh!
I don’t know about this. Do I cheer or do I cry?

On the one hand, the leashed, fifty-pound gorilla of suspicion is about to be sprung. On the other, Chief Clark is about to come after me again like he did before.

When Aunt Weeby doesn’t say another word, the chief loses his patience. “Livvy! Get on with it, woman. What? Are you wanting me to play twenty questions on this? Or do you expect me to read that there wacky mind of yours? Tell me what you’re trying to say, and tell it to me straight. And I don’t want no more of them little word games of yours, either, you hear?”

She sniffs. “I’ve never known you to playact so dense before, Donald Clark. I’m sure you’ve figured it all out by now. You know perfectly well those two wayward boys got theirselves killed.”

“Aha!” he cries. “I knew it. I knew there was more to this than a firebug and a coupla thieves. So which one of you’s the one what smuggled out the goods?”

Not a word.

No one speaks.

No one has to say a word.

Now it all makes sense.

We didn’t smuggle anything out. We didn’t have to.

One of us was an involuntary mule.

Who?

“. . . And Father? We really need a good shaken measure of your strength down here,” Aunt Weeby says. “We’re none of us a part of this here mess, but it’s all come to roost on us like some sick chicken. Give Donald wisdom—goodness knows, he’s got a mighty need right now—and heal Max’s and Andie’s hurts . . .”

“Lord Jesus,” I murmur, “we thank you for your protection in all that’s happened, but please bring your healing touch to that poor cop too. He had even less to do with . . . all this, and he’s the one hurt the worst . . .”

“It wouldn’t hurt if you provided us with some really good gemstone vendors, Lord,” Max adds. “That way Andie won’t have to get any more ideas for field trips.”

I’m outraged. “What kind of mean-spirited prayer is that?”

“One you really need,” he counters. “All your trips have done is get us a handful of good gems and a truckful of bad grief. Stay home, okay?”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m stuck in a hospital bed. How about you? How many midnight dinner parties are you going to go to?”

“You’re delirious.”

“No, I’m not. Where were you—
really
—when our house went up in flames? Who eats dinner at eleven at night?”

He sputters.

“Seriously. You’ve been right there every time something happened. And then, just when our house looked like a Baked Alaska dessert, you showed up with some goofy story about a dinner that ran late. I think you can put our minds at ease— shouldn’t be too hard. Please.”

Silence stuffs the room—again.

“Well?” I ask. “Is there a good reason you can’t answer my questions?”

Mr. Not-So-Magnificent-at-the-Moment seethes.

Aunt Weeby gasps. “Andrea Autumn Adams! What is
wrong
with you, sugarplum? A good ol’ knock on the noggin doesn’t normally knock all common sense right out a body’s ear like that. Apologize to Max. Right away too.”

Miss Mona lays a hand on Max’s forearm. “I know she can get pretty strange at times, and her questions were awfully offensive, but Max? If I’d been burnt out of my home and had my brand-new car blown to bits too, I’d be likely to want to know where you were when the house went up in flames.”

Max’s cheeks turn red and he looks out the window. “I met Glory and Allison for dinner when they finished work.”

“That’s the big secret?” I ask. “I don’t get it. Not for one minute. That’s too normal. Why wouldn’t you just tell us? What’s the big deal? I can ask both of them, and you know they’ll tell.”

The red goes redder. “That’s it. We went to dinner, talked for a while. Allison went home about nine or so, and Glory and I stayed at the restaurant for a while longer. We talked about the trip, working at the S.T.U.D.,
you
and your fixation on rocks . . .” He shrugs. “We talked—that’s it—and before I knew it, it was late. We said good night, and I went home.” Good thing I didn’t let anyone know I’ve fallen for him. He and Glory have something going already. That’s just what I’ve been afraid might happen. The knowledge brings on a flare of the green-eyed nasties, but I make myself tamp it down. “As long as Allison, Glory, and the restaurant all back you up,” I say, in an abundance of magnanimity, “then I have no problem apologizing for my accusation.”

“Well, then,” he says, his voice . . . umm . . . sarcastic—and who can blame him,
if
he’s as innocent as I really hope he is, in spite of the Glory part. “Then I have no problem wishing you well and getting my sorry behind home again. I suppose you won’t object to my doing that, right?”

I blush. “Just go.”

As he makes for the door, the telephone on the ugly, hospital-issue nightstand rings. Aunt Weeby answers, listens, then holds it out to me. “You won’t believe who’s calling you, sugarplum.”

My eyes still glued to Max—who’s standing by the door, his back to me, hand on the knob—I reach for the receiver. “Hello?”

“Andrea!” A voice from my past bursts with exaggerated cheer. “I’m happy to hear the rumors of your death aren’t true after all.”

“Roger?” Is it really my old boss? The one convicted of grand theft? The one who’s supposed to be rotting in jail? “Where are you?”

He takes a moment’s pause. “Where do you think I am? I still have three years to serve on my sentence.”

This is too weird. “And you’re calling
me
?”

A new silence lengthens.

Max, still by the door, turns and crosses his arms.

I keep my peace.

Roger sighs. “I’ve always thought the world of you, Andie. You know that. I heard you were killed when your car blew up, and, well . . . I didn’t want to believe it. I called the PD in that little town where you’re living these days, and they gave me the number to the hospital’s switchboard.”

Did he call to make sure I lived? Or did he call to find out where to have me finished off? I wouldn’t put anything past Roger now that I know what he and his murder-one-convicted wife are capable of doing. Freaky. Way freaky.

“As you can see—hear—I’m fine, Roger. Bruised and crisscrossed with scrapes, sure, but I’ll be okay.” What do you say to someone who used you and your knowledge to his illegal benefit? “How are you?”

Yuck.

He lets out a nervous laugh. “Fine, fine. Better now that I know you weren’t hurt.”

The false enthusiasm sets off more alarms. “I’m surprised you even heard about my car. It only just happened, and I didn’t think you’d have much access to—”

I stop. What
do
you say to a con?

“I’m not in solitary, Andie. I have access to a phone. Tiffany’s the one at a high-security facility. Don’t forget. I never killed anyone.”

“True.” His trophy wife’s the one who took care of that.

He forces a couple of chuckles. “I hear you’ve been traveling again.”

Hmm . . . might we finally be getting to the reason for his call? “Aunt Weeby, Miss Mona, a couple of studio employees, and I went on a short-term mission trip to help at an orphanage in Kashmir.”

“Bet you couldn’t resist a visit to the mines.”

I roll my eyes. Everything’s getting clearer by the minute. “We shot some film of the holes in the rocks. Played-out mines don’t make for exciting footage.”

“But the new ones do.”

There you have it. “Are you buying in to a bunch of rumors?”

“I don’t think anyone gets much in the underground market for rumors these days. New Mine Kashmir sapphires? That’s another story.”

I’ve been accused, interrogated, burned, blasted, and hurt, all because of those stupid blue stones. I don’t have the time or the patience for Roger’s game. “If you’re interested in smuggled goods, which I wouldn’t be if I were sitting where you are, I can’t help you. I didn’t visit any new mines, real or rumored, and I don’t have any Kashmiri stones. Not legal ones, and no way would I get within a continent of the illegal ones.”

“Andrea!” His indignation doesn’t ring true. “Where would you get such an idea?”

From your track record; you’re not in jail for nothing.

I sigh. “What do you really want, Roger?”

The clock ticks about thirty seconds before he speaks. “Okay. I’m going to level with you. I hear a pair of magnificent Kashmir stones have been making the rounds. Underground, of course. Any idea how good they really are? And where they might be?”

“Even if I did, which I don’t, what good would it do you to know?”

He hems and haws, coughs and clears his throat. “None. I just . . . like to keep up with the good old gem trade. I’m not going to be here forever, and hope to set up shop again someday.”

Not in this lifetime.
Who’d buy a pebble from this con?

“That, Roger, sounds about as real as your ex-wife—the second one. The bleached and siliconed one who killed for a parcel of rubies and the bucks they’d bring.”

“No. Really. I’m just curious. Wondered if you knew where they’d gone. But I guess you don’t, do you?”

My head throbs, and I’ve had enough. “Goodbye, Roger. And good luck. Sounds like you don’t learn the easy way.”

When I cut him off, I realize that Max, Aunt Weeby, and Miss Mona are all staring. Before any of them gets a chance to speak, I say, “You heard. I don’t want to talk about it. And you’re all welcome to come to whatever conclusion you like best. I’m going to sleep.”