The Sapphire Pendant (47 page)

“Trust me. We’ll find him.”

“Then go ahead. I leave the task to you.” Kenneth turned to his computer. “Tell Olivia to come back in.”

Nathan jumped to his feet, rubbing his hands together with excitement over the challenge and responsibility. “I will. Thanks.” He left.

Olivia entered. “Is everything okay?”

“No.”

“Then how can you be so calm?” She frowned. “Aren’t you concerned? Someone may be sabotaging the company.”

“Nathan will handle it.”

“That’s very generous of you to let him figure out—”

“I think I know who it is.”

“Who is it?”

“When Nathan comes back with the results, I will confirm or disregard my theory. I knew there was something wrong when the programmers complained about unreasonable delays in running their programs. It was as simple as connecting the dots.”

Olivia wrinkled her nose. “Oh.”

“You don’t sound pleased.”

“Did you tell Nathan?”

“No.”

“You should have told him what you suspected.”

Kenneth rubbed his chin. “Nathan wants responsibility and I gave it to him.”

“But you’re deceiving him. That’s not very nice.”

He sent her a glance. “I never claimed to be.”

Olivia rested her hands on the desk. “You can only be in control for so long, Kenneth. One day your time is going to run out.”

“I won’t be blamed for someone else’s failures. It’s imperative that I’m on top of everything. You’re a clever woman, I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course I understand,” she said sadly. “I understand that you trust nobody and therefore nobody can trust you.”

* * *

Syrah stood in Jessie’s empty room, the shadow of trees falling across the bed and sweeping the ground. She wanted to scream and break things. It was all her fault Aunt Jessie had to leave. Soon Uncle would send her back. She sat on the bed and saw the beaded bracelet she’d given Jessie on the side table. She picked it up. The beads slid off the string and dropped on the table. She gathered them up and saw one was slightly cracked. She pried it open and her heart began to race. She finally knew why the beads sounded like maracas: they were filled with diamonds.

* * *

“You have to go to the police,” Daniel said when she showed him. His mother had gone to work so he and Syrah were alone in his apartment. Light rain fell outside, while the clouds cast a gray hue over the sad little place.

Syrah clutched the sock that held her treasure. “But these are mine. I found them. Don’t you see?” Her voice grew eager. “You could move out of this place and I could take care of myself.” She shook the sock. “These things will solve all our problems.”

“No.” Daniel pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “Diamonds are not put into bracelets for decoration. They could belong to some mafia group who’s selling them on the black market. They could be part of an illegal shipment headed for Europe. Or it could be the loot of some international jewel thieves.”

Syrah tugged on her cap and scowled. “You watch too many movies.”

“I don’t like this at all.”

She shifted her position on the lumpy mattress. “Fine. Then you don’t have to enjoy them with me.”

His eyes slid away. “I can’t let you enjoy them either.”

She paused. “What?”

“Where did you get the bracelet?”

“I found it.”

His eyes caught hers. “Then someone might be looking for it and you as well.”

“No one’s looking for it. They never placed an ad, so now it’s mine.”

“It’s too dangerous for you to keep it.” Daniel studied her face, his eyes sharp behind his glasses. “Who did you steal it from?”

“I didn’t steal it.”

He adjusted his frames, his eyes never wavering.

“I don’t know,” she said finally.

“Yes, you do.”

She sighed annoyed. “It was at my uncle’s office. I think it was Ms. Stephanie’s. She came by the house saying she’d lost it.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Syrah took off her cap then slammed it back on. “I’m not going to get hurt. Nobody knows I have it. You said it’s good to hope. Well, hoping is over. We can do something now. You can find your Dad. Now, do you want some or not?”

Temptation flashed in his eyes. Daniel glanced around the apartment, his thoughts nearly audible. He turned to her, his voice soft. “I once saw a guy beaten to death for his jacket. Someone will do something worse for these, Syrah. I can’t let anything happen to you.” He touched her hand. “You have to—”

She snatched her hand away. “You’re not my damn babysitter, so don’t worry about it.”

“Tell the police.”
 

“I’m not going to the police.”

He held out his hand. “Then I will.”

She kept the sock close, her anxiety rising at the determination in his eyes. “You can’t. I’ll hide them.”

His gaze remained steady.

Tears of rage filled her eyes; he knew too much to let her get away with it. She’d told him things that he could use against her. She’d thought he was her friend.
 

She jumped to her feet trembling. “I hate you,” she spat out. “I hate you more than anyone I’ve ever known. You don’t know anything about life. You think life is about being true and honest and good, but you’re wrong!”

Daniel stood, placing a hand on her shoulder. “It’s the right thing to do.”

Syrah backed away from him. She hated how big he was, she hated feeling weak. She lunged at him and pounded him on the chest with her fists. “You’re a big bully—a nothing!” He grimaced but didn’t fight back; she hated him more for letting her hurt him. “This is my best chance to survive and you don’t even care. I hate you. I wish I’d never met you. I wish we’d never been friends.” She threw the sock at him. “And I hope your father never comes back.” She stormed away, wiping away tears. She shoved people aside as she marched to the bus stop. Suddenly, someone grabbed her arm and spun her around.

Daniel held out the sock. “Take it.”

Syrah yanked her arm free. “I thought you were taking it to the police.”

“I was going to because I cared about you, but I don’t anymore.”

His words stung like any slap across the face she’d ever endured. She opened her mouth to retaliate but the look in his eyes stopped her. She’d hurt him. She’d never cared about hurting someone before. She always felt the world was her enemy, that there were people out to hurt her like her father did. She didn’t realize she could hurt people too.

She pushed the sock away. “Take it to the stupid police.”

“No.”

“You don’t understand. I just...” She clenched her fist. In the back of her mind she heard the words she wished her father would say, her mother, her grandmother or even the bus driver who didn’t listen when she’d told him she’d run away. “I’m sorry all right! I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything about your dad. I didn’t mean it.”
 

He folded his arms and stared at the ground.
 

Tears burned her eyes, her voice fell. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
 

He abruptly turned. “Come on.” His tone hadn’t softened, but she knew he’d forgiven her. “We won’t go to the police right away. They might not believe us since we’re kids. We’ve got to come up with a plan then talk to an adult we can trust.”

Jessie listened to the silvery chime of bells as she entered Fedor Malenkov Jewelers. Her eyes adjusted to the cool dark interior then glanced at the lamplight bouncing off the array of gems and metals. The store had the same wonder and enchantment of Ali Baba’s cave of riches.

A rude voice cut into her thoughts. “BJ, your cousin’s here,” the woman said into the intercom. She was a thin woman with haughty features and the inherent lazy attitude of the overindulged. “He’ll be out in a minute.” She disappeared behind a glitzy novel.

When Jessie heard one of the two back doors open, she held her breath. The past swam through her mind: the many times she’d popped by the store to visit her father, the joy he always greeted her with, his brilliant smile and the ready stories on his lips.

* * *

BJ pushed back the metalworker’s protective eyeshade on his head. “Hello, Jessie,” he said in a low, deep voice. He wore a heavy canvas apron over trousers and an old shirt, which clung to his massive frame. He looked more like a blacksmith than a jeweler with large hands that looked inadequate for his delicate trade. He didn’t have a face meant for ready laughter; it was more suited for an ebony sculpture—dark, intense, smooth. He turned abruptly and headed for the shop, expecting her to follow.
 

In the shop, Jessie peered at the impressive gold Victorian bracelet with locket he’d been working on. He sat and waited.

She chewed her lip. “I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she admitted. Although she did know what called her there: a desperate need to fill the emptiness of loss, of leaving Kenneth and Syrah. A desire to know she’d done the right thing no matter how painful the outcome. She sought to get comfort from the ghost of the other man who held her heart.

“You want a job,” BJ said. “It’s in your blood Jess, the stories, the gems. You can’t run away from it.”

“I’m not a jeweler.”

He was quiet a moment. “We could use a reliable clerk. Someone who knows the jewelry, and the history. I could talk to Mr. Malenkov.”

She stared at the bracelet, wondering what various owners had hidden inside the locket.

“He loved you more than me,” BJ said quietly. Or rather quiet for him, it came across like a low thunder. “I was just a nephew he trained.”

Jessie looked at him surprised that she had given him the impression she was jealous of her father’s affections. “I admired you. I still do. You’re so talented. I was ashamed of myself. Ashamed that I didn’t think my father measured up, that you were proud of him while he embarrassed me. That I didn’t want to be anything like him.”

“And now?”

“I know the price of shame and I’m not willing to pay it. I don’t mind being who I am.”

He didn’t exactly smile, but she could tell he was pleased.

* * *

That evening, Michelle found Jessie in their father’s work room. Nothing had been touched. A museum to his memory: a book still open, a picture of New York hung crooked, crumbled tracing paper and his tools. Jessie sat hunched over the drafting table.
 

“What are you doing in here?” Michelle asked.

“Looking over Dad’s designs. I went by the shop today and spoke to BJ.”

“How is he?”

“Fine. I’m thinking of working there.”

“Dad would have loved that. He’d always wanted one of us...” Her voice faded. She glanced around. “I’m glad you’re in this room it needs to be used, not decayed by old memories. He was happy in here.”

Jessie sat back in the chair, listening to it softly squeak. All her life she had wanted her father to be big and grand, something to talk about. She had been ashamed of his simple pleasures, his simple dreams, but she understood them now. She had the same ones—a nice job, a home, a family—simple wishes didn’t make for insignificant people.

Michelle rested her hand on the back of her chair. “I’m glad you left the house today.”

She’d kept to the house for a week, hiding in her room like a wounded animal. “Yes.”

“Wendy called and told me that the Garden is catering the Weaver’s party this weekend. I told her that you were free. I think you need to get out of the house and face the people you’re hiding from.”

Not people, Kenneth
.

* * *

Rodney stared down at the sleeping woman next to him with masculine satisfaction. His plan had worked. Brooke had come to him in a panic begging him to return the files. He’d liked that. It felt nice to have a woman beg: to see her wide eyes plead, to watch her soft mouth saying his name with an urgent appeal. But he finally got her legs around him and that was his greatest victory.
 

He looked down at the diamond cufflinks Brooke had given him. She’d said no other man had ever made her feel this way. She belonged to him now. Rodney sighed feeling himself grow hard again. He wanted to wake her, but decided to let her sleep. There would be other nights. She wanted him to do one more thing and then promised there wouldn’t be anything else. For another night like this, he would do it.

* * *

Jessie searched her closet and saw her dry-cleaned tux next to the outrageous outfit Mrs. Ashford had loaned her. She stared at it. It seemed ages ago since she had worn it; it was time to give it back.
 

She drove up to the Ashford mansion, wondering if she should go up to the front door or around to the servants’ entrance. She shrugged and rang the front doorbell.

Ms. Frey answered stone-faced.

“Hello.” Jessie held out the package. “It’s a bit overdue, but I’m finally returning the outfit.”
 

Ms. Frey glanced at it and stepped back. “Come in. I’m sure Mrs. Ashford would like to see you.”

“But I was just dropping this off.”

“Wait here.” Ms. Frey flashed a mysterious smile and turned away. Jessie stood in the vaulted foyer feeling like a lost orphan.

A loud voice cut through the air. “Jessie Clifton,” Mrs. Ashford bellowed at the top of the curving staircase. “You poor girl.” She floated down the stairs, draped in a crimson silk dress, a gaudy orange scarf trailing behind her. She stopped in front of Jessie and patted her cheek. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“I just came to return your outfit,” Jessie said confused.

“You don’t need to use that as an excuse to see me, my dear girl.” She tossed the package to Ms. Frey who had appeared behind her. “I’d like tea in the reading room.” She took Jessie’s arm. “I just knew you would come to me in this time of struggle.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Mrs. Ashford patted her hand. Jessie winced as the woman’s ringed hand struck her knuckles. “You always were such a brave girl. Take a seat. Now don’t be shy to speak to me. I know your heart is aching inside.”

“But I—”

She held up a hand. “No, that’s wrong of me. I shouldn’t force you to share your pain so suddenly. Let me speak first. Just put the tea on the table and leave,” she said when Ms. Frey arrived with the tray. “Thank you.” She turned to Jessie. “Everybody fails in love once in awhile, but I must say that I’m proud of you...You may go ahead and pour the tea, honey. I don’t expect you to stare at me the entire time. My you pour extremely well, some people actually splash the damn thing, getting the saucer wet. I can’t stand soggy saucers, can you? But of course you were well trained. Your mother was French.”