Blood Rubies (22 page)

“Why what?” Max asked, making a note in his impossible-to-read scrawl.

She turned back to face him. “My brother is highly charged, but not highly disciplined when it comes to people he cares about. Please tell me what he said.”

I repeated what Wes told me, then said, “I'm sor—”

Max jumped in. He patted my arm, gave me a kind, fatherly smile, then turned toward Ana. “Josie sent Wes those photos after discussing it with Police Chief Hunter. He hoped they might generate leads. Are you all right with that?”

“Of course! Why wouldn't I be?”

“It's possible you, like your brother, might have thought Josie should have asked permission.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I gave those photos to Josie for her to use as she thinks best.”

Max made a note. “Peter indicated something about privacy concerns.”

Ana laughed, one unladylike snort. “Privacy concerns? I've been trying to get a reality TV show produced. I was going to feature the Fabergé egg on the show. What privacy concerns?” She flipped her hand backward in a derisive gesture of dismissal. “Besides which, my brother doesn't speak for me.”

“What a relief,” I said, leaning back. “I was so worried I'd upset you, and I wouldn't do that for the world.”

“I'm plenty upset, but not at you.” She shook her head. “Peter is misguided, but his heart is in the right place. He's so family-oriented. I'm certain he was only doing what he thought was best for me.”

Max made another note, opened his portfolio, and extracted a single sheet of paper. He glanced at the paper, then slid it across the table toward Ana.

“Please read this,” he said, “and if the language reflects your intent, please sign it.”

Ana read through the document, signed her name, dated it, and slid it back toward him. “May I have a copy?”

“Certainly.”

He pushed a button on the phone console, and Marian appeared at the door. He explained what he wanted. The three of us sat silently until she reappeared, copies in hand.

Max handed one to Ana, then the other to me. “For your files.”

We all stood up, and Max shook hands with each of us.

Ana asked to use the restroom, and when Marian led her away, I whispered, “That went better than I expected.”

Max smiled. “I agree.”

“Why did you stop me from apologizing?”

“An apology implies wrongdoing.”

“That isn't what I meant!”

“I know. People say ‘I'm sorry' as a default, without thinking about the actual meaning or how it might be perceived.”

I thought of Heather and how I'd questioned what was behind her repeated apologies. Perception. I stared at the three-sentence memo. Ana had just given me permission to use, publish, disseminate, or otherwise share her photographs of the Fabergé Spring Egg snow globe. I raised my eyes to his. “Thank you, Max.”

“You're welcome. Good luck with your search.”

I slipped the paper into my tote bag. “I have a feeling I'm going to need it.”

*   *   *

Ana had never been to Ellie's Crêpes, one of my favorite restaurants.

Ellie's fronted on the village green. The seating area was long and narrow in what had been a chocolate manufactory. Mellowed bricks lined both walls. Every table was filled, and a line stretched out the door. No one made better crêpes than Ellie.

I left Ana looking at the menu and hurried into the single-unit, unisex restroom, and locked the door. I texted Ellis. “Any news re Drake?”

He replied within seconds. “No.”

I returned to the table as the waitress, a tall young woman with earnest eyes, was pouring water from a stainless steel pitcher.

“I'm sorry you had to become involved in Peter's issues,” Ana said. “Please add Max's bill to my invoice. There's no reason you should have to pay for my brother's bad behavior.”

“That's very gracious of you, Ana, but completely unnecessary. I should have clients sign a release all the time. Now I have a template.”

Ana sighed. “What a world we live in. Filled with suspicion.”

“Suspicion and cynicism and litigation.”

The waitress reappeared, and I ordered my regular, the chicken and asparagus crêpe with mornay sauce. Ana ordered the ratatouille crêpe.

She handed over her menu, waited for the waitress to walk away, then said, “Do you think there's any hope of finding the egg?”

“Yes, I do. I have lots of irons in the fire.”

“Like what?”

“I can't tell you. Or rather, I have nothing to tell you yet. I promise I will as soon as I can.”

“Need to know versus want to know. I dated an army officer once. He only told me things I needed to know.” She smiled, head cocked, eyes dancing. “Made for limited chitchat.”

I laughed, and it felt good, but then memories returned, and the mood passed.
Jason.
“Is Heather's family staying in town?”

“Most people have left already. The rest go tomorrow. For the funeral.” Ana moved the salt shaker closer to its mate. “The church service is at nine, followed by the interment. I plan on driving back right away. I asked Heather if she wanted me to stay over and she said no, that she was being suffocated by love and caring and wanted everyone to leave her alone.” She glanced over her shoulder to check out the tables in back of us. No one was paying us any attention. She swiveled back and met my eyes. “I'm scheduled to have a powwow with Maurice, Ray, and Suzanne tomorrow at three.” She grimaced. “I'm in for a fun day, huh? First a funeral, then a talk with a madman.”

“Do you think he's really mad?”

“I don't know. Everyone at the Blue Dolphin indulges him like he's the crown prince or something. I don't get it.”

“Even Ray?”

“Especially Ray. I've known a lot of pastry chefs in my day. I went to school with scores of them. Heck, I am one. There's a lot of cockiness among us, God knows, but I've never seen anyone even half as arrogant or a quarter as rude as he is.”

“Maybe he's just what he seems to be—a spoiled brat.”

She shrugged. “I have no idea.”

The waitress brought our plates. I watched as Ana tried her crêpe.

“This is unbelievable,” she said. “Luscious!”

“I know. And Ellie won't tell anyone how she does it.”

“What do you think it is? It's not sugar. Could it be Grand Marnier?”

“In a savory crêpe? That would be a new one.”

Ana lowered her fork to her plate and looked at me, a steady gaze. “I need to ask a favor.” She paused. “Would you come with me to my meeting?”

“Me?” I asked, surprised.

“As a witness and a translator. To help me remember what's said and how people act, and to help me understand what I can do to make the situation work. I don't want to lose the Blue Dolphin account, and I don't want to get blamed if Maurice quits or flips out. To help me figure out how to avoid inflaming an already explosive situation.” Ana laid her hand on top of mine and pressed down. “I know I have no right to ask, but I'd be so grateful.”

“Let me check my schedule,” I said, flattered to be asked and secretly glad to be offered an opportunity to see Maurice in action, to see if he was all hot air and bad attitude or whether there was some as yet unrecognized substance beneath his emotional meltdowns. I dug my phone out of my tote bag and checked my calendar. Nothing was scheduled. “I can go.” I entered the meeting into the calendar.

“Thank you. I can't tell you how appreciative I am.”

“Where are you meeting?”

“At the restaurant.”

I added that info to the listing, then slipped the phone back into my bag.

Ana picked up her fork and took a bite. “I should have thought of this earlier—having someone with me.” She sighed. “Truthfully, I've been in such a funk, I haven't registered that Maurice might be out to derail me and my company and that this meeting really matters to my business. Between you, me, and this shaker of salt, I'm dreading it.”

I understood some, at least, of the complexity she'd be walking into. Ana was in a tough spot. Her boyfriend, Chef Ray, would be there representing the Blue Dolphin, not her, and no matter what he wanted personally, his loyalty at work had to be to his job. His boss, Suzanne, wouldn't be concerned about Ana at all. Her responsibility was to her company, to her bottom line. And Maurice seemed out to get Ana regardless of what was best for the restaurant.

“I don't blame you,” I said. “It's a pretty dreadful situation.”

“I trust your judgment, Josie. It will be wonderful to have someone there who has no agenda.”

I smiled and finished my crêpe, thinking that it was a good thing Ana couldn't read my mind. I did indeed have my own agenda, and it wasn't the same as hers.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY

Marianna Albert lived on Woodbridge Road in Durham, a university town about twenty miles inland from Rocky Point, about a half-hour drive. Ty and I had gone to a party at a house on that street a couple of years ago, so I knew the neighborhood was high-end, with large glass and stone contemporaries and sprawling Colonials set on five-plus-acre lots. I smiled to myself thinking about getting a gander at Marianna's husband's collection of eighty-seven gentleman's gadget canes.

“Fingers crossed,” I said aloud. I glanced at the dash clock. It was only ten to two, so I had plenty of time to check in at work.

Before I started the drive, I called Ellis and got his voice mail.

“I'm calling just because I said I would. I have no news. Maybe Ana isn't involved after all—I don't know. She had no problem with my using the photos. She seems the same as always, except maybe a little preoccupied with business issues, which, given all she has going on, would be completely normal, if you ask me. Anyway, I guess no news is good news.”

I ended the call and headed to my office. When I arrived, Fred was standing by the table doing a happy dance, half '70s disco, half modern-day hip-hop, his index fingers pointing to the ceiling. He dipped and spun and shook his hips, wiggling in time to Cara and Gretchen's rhythmic clapping.

Sasha's cheeks were rosy pink. She was smiling and clapping along, mostly off the beat.

“The happy dance!” I said, stepping inside. “What are we celebrating?”

Gretchen grinned, her emerald eyes sparkling. “Sasha's verification of the Victorian Christmas snow globe. It's authentic. And rare. And valuable.”

I turned to Sasha. “Yay!”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, her smile widening, her cheeks reddening. She sounded proud when she said, “It's good.”

Fred stopped dancing, and Cara and Gretchen stopped clapping. Everyone was looking at Sasha. I held up crossed fingers.

“You know how I spoke to the director of the Vienna Snow Globe Museum? He gave me a list of materials that would have been used by the company during various periods to help date ours. Silver and gold and certain kinds of wood for specific applications and different categories of embellishments and which was used when, and so on. The Victorian Christmas snow globe matches the materials lists perfectly. I thought we wouldn't be able to narrow the date any more than the early nineteen hundreds, but we can.” She paused, and from the way her eyes shone, I could tell she was enjoying creating a little suspense. “The company no longer has any twentieth-century custom-order records, but they found a raw materials inventory listing from 1913—including exactly the kinds of greenery we see on the doors. It was the first and only year they used piece-made garlands. Before and after that year, they used lengths of garland material cut to fit.” She leaned back and smiled as widely as I'd ever seen her smile. “I've just confirmed that it is a genuine Vienna Snow Globe company object. We have empirical evidence.”

“And its value?” I asked.

“Based on past sales and current levels of interest in holiday-themed snow globes, I'm estimating that it would sell at auction for between twenty and twenty-five thousand dollars.” She smiled. “It's in perfect condition.”

I whistled, a two-toned brava. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you do that. I want to join the happy dance!”

I leaped up and spun into a disco move, jiggling my right index finger up and down and up again toward an imaginary mirrored disco ball. Fred joined in, and Cara and Gretchen resumed their clapping. Sasha laughed, pressing her palms against her flushed cheeks. After about a minute, I flopped down at the guest table.

“Great job, Sasha. How about the other one, the one with two skaters?”

She smiled devilishly. “I think it might be even more valuable than the Victorian Christmas one.” She walked it over and placed it carefully in front of me. She offered me a loupe, which I took and eased into place. “Look for a capital
G
in blue on the pond. It's hard to see because the pond is painted streaky blue to mimic ice. It's just to the left of the man.”

I stared at the spot she indicated. “Well, looky, looky! Underglaze blue.”

“Exactly.”

I removed the loupe. “I don't know that mark. Whose is it?”

“It belongs to the Gardner factory, which was located in a suburb of Moscow called Verbilki. The Metropolitan Museum of Art has several examples of Gardner's work. This sculpture appears to date from around 1770, more than a hundred years before snow globes were invented.”

“So it's just as you suspected. Someone placed it in a snow globe at a later date.”

“It looks that way.”

“Are you comfortable dating it based on the mark and style similarities to the ones in the Met?”

“Yes. The mark is telling. Francis Gardner was an Englishman who emigrated to Russia in 1746 to open a porcelain manufacturing company. The tsar had to okay all new manufacturing facilities, and it took him twenty years to get official permission to produce his wares.” She shook her head. “Can you imagine? Twenty years.”