Authors: Jane K. Cleland
Blood Rubies
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This is for my niece Marci Gleason. And of course, for Joe.
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Contents
Other Josie Prescott Antiques Mysteries by Jane K. Cleland
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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.
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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 anticipatedâI counted twenty-two people, including a uniformed security guardâand 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 herâon 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 lieâI'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 âbeautiful.' 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 resultâbut they can't read your mind. You need to know what you want, and you need to communicate it clearly. Do that”âshe paused again and smiled, a dazzlerâ“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 the 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?”
