Priced to Move (7 page)

“Diamonds are a girl’s best friend . . .” Max’s baritone does a decent job on Marilyn’s trademark song. Not that I need it.

Time for damage control.

“Max has a point. But let me tell you, diamonds have gone up 30 percent in recent years. Know what a so-so two-carat diamond sells for? Way more than four hundred and seventy-five dollars. You can take that to the bank.”

“You think you can talk women into going cold turkey on diamonds?”

He’s so incredulous, it sounds as though he’s mocking me. Not cool. Maybe I can talk Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona into going cold turkey on
him
. “I find colored stones just as exciting as diamonds.”

His muttered response isn’t—thankfully—clear. I try to ignore him and get on with my job. “So how many of you lovely ladies out there are going to be so lucky as to own one of these gorgeous stones? I see on my monitor that a bunch of you have already taken advantage of this great offer. You’re smart shoppers. And we still have some quantity left for the next few callers—but not a lot. I don’t even have enough for two per state, so hurry, grab yours before they’re all gone.”

Five feet behind the camera, Carla, Miss Mona’s assistant, mimics a phone with her hand. Relief is good.

“Let’s go to the phones.” I squint against the studio lights to read the monitor screen on the desk. “Hello? Is this Sissy from Alaska?”

Giggles titter over the air. “Yes! I can’t believe I got through!”

Even a giddy viewer is better than Max. “I’m happy you called. What do you think of the spessartite?”

“Oh, dearie, it’s just precious! I saw it, and just had to elbow Charlie. I told him I had to have it. So he bought it for me. Told him it’d keep me thinking of him while he’s on the road all those days at a time.”

“Are you a collector, Sissy?”

“Oh, dearie, I collect
everything
. I haven’t met the teapot I haven’t loved. And porcelain dolls? Why, they’re my babies.

Well, aside from Fritzi and Mitzi, my Pomeranians. And then there’s the plates and the quilts and . . .”

Her list boggles this mind. “So tell me, will you be setting the stone? Do you need a diamond semi-mount? Because if you do”—I lower my voice to girls-sharing-secrets level—“I have a faboo tray of them to show you. Six, six beautiful diamond semi-mounts.”

“And we’re off to the races! Giddyap!” Max says. “What’s a semi-mount?”

I spin my chair and face him, distracting or not. “You don’t know a spessartite from spit, and now you ask me what a semi-mount is? You don’t know a thing about the gem trade, do you?”

Tweezers in hand, he shrugs. “Never said I did.”

“But—how . . . you’re supposed to be a gem expert!”

“Why?”

“Because we’re selling gems.”

“No.
We’re
not selling gems.
You
are selling gems.”

“Fine. But then what good are you?”

Just beyond the camera, Miss Mona is making like a football ref calling for a time-out. Everything about her blares STOP. Okay. I’ll stop. For now. But just wait until this fiasco is over . . .

“We have three more stones available. Who’s going to pick them up? Who’s going to own a stone that’s close to extinction from the earth’s crust? Who wants—”

“Ooops!”

Max’s tweezers clatter onto the desk. Something sparkly skitters across the surface, falls off the edge, and I see it bounce toward the camera tripod. My jaw drops.

Did he really just do that? And Miss Mona thought he was a good idea because . . . ?

When I collect myself, I point at Max. “You! How could you? What kind of idiot drops a princess-cut diamond? What were you thinking?”

“Before you get a chance,” he says in that ridiculously wonderful voice, “I’ll say my kind of idiot. What’s the big deal? I dropped it. It’s not as if I tossed it through the goalpost uprights, then did a victory dance on top of it. I’ll just go pick it up.”

“NO!” I leap out of my chair. “Don’t you even think about it. Don’t move.”

As I kneel to pick up the gem, the channel’s theme song starts up again. Relief turns my knees to overcooked linguine, and I plop down onto my butt.

Thank you, Lord.
The launch show is over. The nightmare has ended. I can get back to the rest of my life. Far, far away from the S.T.U.D. studios.

You know it.

6
⁰⁰

Decision made, I scramble up, shaking. I’m so mad. Diamond in hand, I stalk off the set and, like a bride on Filene’s Basement gown sale day, make for Miss Mona. “I quit! There is no way I’m working with that joker ever again. He knows nothing,
nothing
about gems.”

“Oh, Andie!” She chortles. “You have no idea. This is
the
most successful show we’ve ever had. You and Max are wonderful.”

“Huh?” I stick a finger in my right ear and jiggle. “What’d you say?”

“The phones haven’t stopped ringing since the two of you went on. We sold out of the spessartites, all the semi-mounts went too—sight unseen—and the viewers want to know when you and Max are on next. They don’t want to miss it!”

Now I’m really living in a nightmare. “But he doesn’t know a thing! He said some really dumb stuff on the air. And he dropped a diamond. A diamond, Miss Mona. The one we were supposed to feature next—but couldn’t. He messed up the show from the start.”

Aunt Weeby clumps up, a radiant grin on her face. “Sugarplum! You and Max are a hit! I was in the call room with the customer service girls, and I heard all them phone calls. You’re a hit! The viewers love you and Max. They think you’re a perfect couple—you know: Hepburn and Tracy,
Moonlighting
’s Maddy and David, Miss Piggy and Kermit.”

Oh great.
Her plan really is for me to join the ranks of pink-obsessed pig puppets. “But—”

“It’s everything I wanted and more,” Miss Mona adds. “Sparks! Fireworks! Chemistry! I knew it would work.”

Chemistry?
Did these two ever think to check my past? I’m the one who got kicked out of chem lab once for setting the place on fire. I hardly think their plan included spontaneous combustion of the redhead-with-a-temper kind.

“You two are nuts. Keep Mr. Chemistry. I’m outta here. You can teach Max the Magnificent a thing or two about the gem trade. Oh, oh! And how ’bout this? I’m sure Miss Piggy would love to stage a comeback and be his sidekick. I hear she’s between projects these days.”

With no dignity left, I don’t care that every employee stares at me as I stomp out of the studio. I can’t believe I set myself up for this. And to think I gave up that fab career of mine in New York for a pair of lunatic seniors, the chance to humiliate myself before millions, and a know-nothing pretty boy. I thought that was a good idea because . . . ?

“But you were great . . .” Miss Mona’s wail follows me all the way to the door.

We were great, all right. A great, big, fat flop.

I should’ve known better than to let Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona take over my life.

Now what, Lord?

In the parking lot, I realize something’s cutting into my palm. I glance down and groan.

You got it. I walked out with the diamond Max dropped. And while I can return it in the morning, once I’m not so mad, I don’t feel right taking a three-carat treasure home with me.

But would you want to go back to the scene of that crime? I don’t either.

And that’s when my conscience kicks in, right on schedule. I’m convinced that mental tyrant of mine is hitched at the hip to heaven. So I try to reason. Why? I don’t know. I’ve yet to win a single argument. But I give it a go anyway.

“Okay, Lord. I know I have to take it back. But it was such a perfect exit!”

I take three steps toward Aunt Weeby’s old, clunky VW Jetta—she loaned it to me until I find myself a decent set of wheels to buy. Mine bit the dust when I pulled into town.

Where was I? Oh yeah, praying.
God?

Since he doesn’t answer me, my discomfort grows.

“Aw, c’mon. You know I’m honest. I’m not going to run away with Miss Mona’s property. I’ll bring it back. Besides, I’m too embarrassed.”

Then it hits me. No matter how much I want to flee, there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s a very good reason the Bible calls anger a no-no. I let mine get the better of me, and I stormed out without my purse. Uh-huh. You know it.

No purse, no keys. No keys, no Jetta getaway.

Bummer.

“Oh, okay. I get the message. I gotta go back in there and eat humble pie. And when I see anyone, today or tomorrow, I’ll have to confess and ask forgiveness. As always, you’re right. Just don’t leave me now, Lord. Help me through it all.”

Not feeling a whole lot better, I retrace my steps, push open one of the massive glass doors, and reenter the building. In the lobby, a tall brunette in a gorgeous black suit stops me.

“Are you Mona Latimer?”

I laugh at the stranger’s question. “You’ve got to be kidding. She’s my great-aunt’s best friend. I’m Andie Adams, one of the hosts here. Who’re you?”

She waves. “No one, really. I mean, I’m supposed to meet Miss Mona for an interview. I’m a couple of hours late because of my flight.”

“Aha! So you’re the one. She’ll be happy to see you.” Especially since it’ll take her mind off the debacle Max and I just staged. “Why don’t you go down that hall on the left, and keep going to the end. Her assistant should be there. She’ll get you to Miss Mona.”

I turn to get back to my business, but then say over my shoulder, “Good luck!”

She doesn’t smile back but only nods.

Back to righting my latest wrong—I told you trouble follows me, right? Oh, well. First I have to deal with the purse and then return the diamond to the vault. While I don’t have the car keys, I do have the vault combination memorized. At least I don’t have to go back to the scene of the debacle just yet. I can take care of the diamond first, and then face the music.

I find my dressing room door about an inch ajar. Strange.

I’m pretty sure I closed it all the way before I headed for makeup and hair. But that’s no big deal, I guess. I don’t have anything anyone would want.

I walk in and my ears are assaulted.

“Squawk! Shriek, shriek!”

My ears ring and my heart does a hundred-yard dash. “What…?”

Then I see it. And what a sight it is. I now know for sure, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’ve walked into one of those parallel universes Trekkies talk about.

Who’s ever heard of a birdcage in a corporate building? Especially a birdcage that comes complete with what looks like a beautiful miniature parrot swinging on a perch.

“Squawk! Shriek, shriek!”

How can something so beautiful make such a nasty noise? And the little loudmouth
is
gorgeous. Bright orange-red head feathers blend into yellow ones on its neck. Those shade toward red again down the body, but then melt into the yellow on the wings. The most extreme wing feathers are blue-green and match the long tail feathers—I’m talking long as in as long as the body itself. The bird’s chest is that same orange-red as its neck. Beautiful.

The critter tilts its head and with its round black eyes peers at me, as if wondering who I might be and why I’m suddenly here. If it weren’t for the diamond, I’d be wondering the same thing myself. I do notice the pointy beak and sharp claws, also black—in sharp contrast with all the brilliant color. They don’t exactly reassure me.

“Squawk! Shriek, shriek!”

“All righty then. I get the message. I’ll keep my distance.”

But I do have to move the cage to get to my Coach bag, which I left on my small armchair. Whoever brought the feathered invader in here stuck the cage on top of the purse. The little pile of feathers objects to my efforts to retrieve my handbag—at ear-splitting decibel level.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” I drop the cage out of my way right next to the chair. “Don’t get your feathers all ruffled now. You’re fine.”

Sadly, my Stella McCartneys aren’t. The cage, small though it is, has a tiny water bowl, which sloshes its contents all over. Some drops—enough—hit the lovely dark green velvet. All that extreme shopping down the drain.

My earlier frustration returns. What a rotten day. “I can’t wait until it’s over,” I tell the showy bird. “And don’t complain again. I’m no happier than you are. And by the time I come back tomorrow, you better be gone.”

Purse in hand, I hurry to the ladies’ room—yepper, that’s right, the bathroom. In their never-ending, way-out-there wisdom, Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona figure no sane robber would think to check out the restroom for a vault. So right between the last of six sinks and the hot-air hand dryer, behind the walnut wall panel, one finds the Shop-Til-U-Drop Network’s vault.

That’s right. I’m with ya. Crazy.

When I walk into the bathroom and don’t see Julie at her post, I get that hinky feeling of something not quite right. But ready to go hide out in my room at the house, I press the exact spot that activates the spring-loaded panel. It swings out and the massive steel door gleams at me. The lock, with its coded numbers, is the last hurdle before I can ditch the diamond and go home.

Once I plug in the right sequence, the tumblers click into place, and I give the huge wheel-shaped lock a spin. Good.

I’m just that much closer to home.

But when the door swings toward me, I stumble. My eyes pop. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

My hands shake.

My stomach heaves.

I grow cold, then hot as I lean over to get a better look at the man sprawled facedown on the floor of the vault, a puddle of blood under his head. Horror gets the best of me, and I let out a wrenching, heartfelt scream.

“HELP!” Then quieter, “Oh, Lord Jesus . . . please,
please
help.”

I don’t know if I blacked out or if my brain just blocked out the awfulness, because I remember nothing more until the door bursts open and Julie runs in. Behind her are Miss Mona, Aunt Weeby, Carla, Sally, and Max.

“Andie! Are you okay—” Julie cuts off her own question with a gasp. She goes for her pistol, holds out her free hand to keep the others from crowding after her, and then steps into the vault. “Call 9-1-1.”