When the Day of Evil Comes (6 page)

F
RIDAYS ARE NOT BAD DAYS IN ACADEMIA
. MWF classes are usually only an hour long. And by the afternoon, the no-show rate has reached epidemic proportions. Plus, no one wants any office time from me after class. Everyone’s in too big a hurry to get home and get on with their weekend.

All that to say, I was able to scoot away in plenty of time to make my appointment with Tibor Silverstein.

The address Silverstein had given me was in an office building, tenth floor, which threw me off a bit. Not exactly like he was going to attract the Zales’ crowd with this off-the-beaten-path location. The door plate said only “Silverstein & Co.” No indication of what kind of business it was. I pushed open the huge wooden door and stepped into a tomb-like waiting room.

I found myself alone and freezing, with air conditioning blasting onto my head through the ceiling vents. The carpets had fresh vacuum tracks in them. Clearly the waiting room didn’t get much traffic. My fanny was inches away from the seat of an expensive wingback chair when God spoke to me.

It wasn’t God, really. But it was a booming voice from above with an eastern-European Jewish accent. Which was always what I imagined God would sound like (even though in all the
Charlton Heston movies, everyone has a British accent).

“Yes?” the Almighty said.

I froze in midair, still poised above the cushion.

“I’m here to see Mr. Silverstein,” I said.

“Which Mr. Silverstein?” the voice demanded.

“Tibor Silverstein.”

“Who are you?”

“Dylan Foster.”

There was no answer from above. I heard a loud click as the door at the end of the room opened, apparently by itself.

I looked around the room for the cameras, but I couldn’t spot them and didn’t want to be obvious. After all, I was being watched.

I stood up and spoke to the ceiling. “Do I—?”

“Through the door and all the way to the end of the hall,” the voice said.

I did as I was told. Through the door, which locked itself behind me, and all the way to the end of the hall. I walked past six or seven closed, and I’m sure locked, doors on either side. Not a particularly collegial work environment.

I reached the final door and pushed the button on the outside of the door. I heard a bell ring, and the door clicked open by itself. I stepped through the doorway and walked into the work area of Tibor Silverstein.

He didn’t look up when I came in, which gave me a chance to look around.

The space was tiny and dominated by a large, flat work surface—I’d say desk, but it really wasn’t a desk. It was more like a workbench, but not so official. It was an old, sort of plywood-looking structure, with tools scattered all over it and drawers half open. A bright worklight ignited little rainbow piles of gems dotting the desk.

Over this workspace bent a man who could have passed for lumberjack, truck driver, or perhaps dictator of a third-world country. He was huge, bearded and rough-handed, and completely uninterested in me.

“Should I—?”

“Sit,” he said, still not looking up.

I sat. And waited.

Several minutes passed before Tibor Silverstein looked up from his work.

“Vat do you vant?” he demanded, taking off thick, black-rimmed glasses.

I translated silently to myself: “And what can I do for you, Ms. Foster?”

Out loud I answered, “I don’t know if you remember making my mother’s wedding ring. My father, Phil Foster, had it made here—”

“Platinum ring, antique setting. 1.2-carat diamond, VVS1 gem quality.”

I pulled out the ring and handed it to him. “Is that the same ring?”

Tibor took the ring from me, put his glass up to his eye, and studied the ring.

“Yes,” he said, and handed it back to me. He looked at me. Clearly it was my move.

“How can you be positive? Could it be a—”

“No. I made that ring.”

“How do you know?”

He handed me the glass. “Look through the loupe,” he said. I guess that little glass thingy was called a loupe. “Same stone. And look on the inside, underneath the stone.”

I looked. Engraved in the platinum were the initials TS and the numbers 969.

“What do the numbers mean?”

“September 1969.” He swiveled in his chair and opened a file drawer, pulling out a thick folder and opening it on the desktop. He placed a pair of wire reading glasses on his nose and squinted through the papers until he found what he wanted.

He handed me a pink sheet of paper.

The print was faded, but clearly legible. It was a mimeograph copy of the original design notes, along with a detailed description of the stone. My father had signed off on the order. It was dated July 15, 1969.

“This says July,” I said.

“September is the completion date. I delivered it to him …” he checked the file, “September 8.” He looked up. “A Monday.”

“You keep good records,” I said.

“Yes.” He stared at me over his glasses. “Is there anything else?”

I thought a minute, trying to decide what to do. Finally, I said, “Yes, there is. Could you just … give me a minute? This is sort of a strange situation.”

“Vat is sort of a strange situation?”

“The original ring,” I said, “was buried with my mother. Two years ago. And now it’s turned up again, and I am looking for an explanation. You’re sure no one else could have made that ring? Maybe even copied the markings?”

He was shaking his head before I finished. “Same stone. And only record of those markings is in these files. And as you can see,” he smiled for the first time and gestured toward the door, “I keep a very tight shop.”

“Why is that?”

“Aach! You are naive.” He poked through one of the piles of stones on the table, picked out a big sparkly diamond and handed it to me. “Look.”

I put the loupe up to my eye and was dazzled by the brilliance of what I saw—faceted white light sprayed with rainbow color at the edges.

“Ten thousand dollars,” he said. “Wholesale.”

I pursed my lips and handed it back to him.

“And the meticulous records?”

“Insurance,” he said. “Always they require detailed records.”

“Can you think of any way—?”

“A thief,” he said simply.

“A thief,” I repeated, staring at him. The man was rude
and
insane.

“Yes. A thief.”

“You mean someone dug up my mother’s grave and stole her ring? I don’t think so.”

He shook his head impatiently “Before she was buried. A thief. He slips it off her finger, he puts it in his pocket, and he feeds his family for months. No one ever will find out.”

“But I saw it on her finger.”

“Did you see them close the lid to the … what do you say, casket? And did you lose sight of this casket between that moment and the moment they closed the grave? Did you ride with this casket in the car to the burial yard? Many, many opportunities for a thief. Many.”

I didn’t say anything. He had a point.

“It’s happened before,” he continued. “A few times I have been asked to verify a piece of jewelry that disappeared in the same way.”

I stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Silverstein.”

“Tibor,” he said gruffly Then he looked at me sideways, his expression softening. “How is your father? Will he marry that woman?”

“Kellee? I’m afraid so.”

Tibor shook his head regretfully. “It is a very gaudy ring.”

“You’re making Kellee’s ring?”

He nodded. “Yellow gold. Six-carat yellow diamond, pear-shaped, with two round white diamonds, two carats each, on either side.” He shook his head again, his face softening at last. “It is a ring that would choke a farm horse.”

I laughed out loud and held out my hand. His hand covered mine completely. I wondered how such huge hands had mastered such delicate work.

“It was good meeting you, Tibor.” I turned to go. “I do appreciate your time.”

“How do you like the necklace?” he asked.

I froze.

“What necklace?”

“Your father. He ordered you a necklace.”

“What does it look like?”

“He hasn’t give it to you yet? Ach. I spoiled the surprise.”

“What does it look like?” I repeated.

“Small platinum cross, nine-diamond inlay, eighteen-inch chain. Very tasteful.”

I felt myself relax, the surge of electric panic dissipating. “I’m sure it’s lovely He hasn’t given it to me yet.” I winked at him. “I won’t tell him you mentioned it.”

“Dylan Foster, I hope you solve your mystery,” he said.

“Thank you. I do too.”

I
DIDN’T MIND THE HEAT
and the smog that hit me when I left that refrigerator of a building. I felt my goose bumps go away as I started the truck and drove home. The drive settled me down. Something about the warm air and the dailiness of sitting in Dallas traffic.

When I got to my house, I threw my stuff down and immediately locked the ring back in the buffet with the necklace. I went back outside and sat on the porch swing with my cordless phone, a phone book, and a pad of paper.

I’m always tempted to page my dad and claim to be in the throes of a myocardial infarction, just to get a little immediate attention out of him. But if I did, I know the answering service would just tell me to call 911. I left a message for him and decided to call Guthrie instead.

I looked up my brother’s phone number and dialed, hoping his wife wouldn’t answer the phone.

She did, of course.

“Hello Cleo,” I said.

“Dylan,” she said, faking delight. “How nice to hear from you.”

“Great to talk to you too,” I lied. “It’s been too long. How’s the packing coming?”

“You know your brother,” she said.

I didn’t, really.

“… leaving everything to me. Only a man has time to play golf two days before a cross-country move.”

“So he’s not around?”

“He’s settling in at the nineteenth hole, I would guess. Why don’t you try him on his mobile?”

I reached for the pad. “Do you have the number?”

“You don’t know your brother’s phone number?” The fake affection had lasted all of twenty seconds.

“Could you just give it to me, please?”

She reeled it off, told me again how delighted she was that I’d called, and asked me if I’d send my brother home when I talked to him.

I assured her I would. As if he’d obey me and race right to her side.

I dialed the number and waited until the fourth ring. I was about to hang up when I heard his voice in front of a crowd.

“Guthrie Foster,” he said.

“Hey, big brother.”

“Dylan!” he shouted. “Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you fine. Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear, baby sister.”

“How was golf?”

“If I improve every day for the rest of my life, I ought to be a scratch golfer about thirty years after I’m dead. That’s how bad I played today All eighteen holes. It was a thing of beauty, really.” I heard him ask the bartender for another gin and tonic. “What’s up?”

“Strange request,” I said. “You don’t happen to remember the name of the funeral home that did mom’s funeral, do you?”

“Sutter,” he said without hesitating.

“How do you remember that?” I asked in wonder. If I asked him what color my fifth-grade bicycle seat was, he could probably tell me. It was remarkable. He was like a savant or something.

“Sutter Home,” he said. “We drank it that night because we thought it was so stupid to name a funeral home after a lousy bottle of wine. A good bottle of wine, maybe. Beringer. Now that’s a good bottle of wine. A nice Beringer chardonnay. But Sutter Home?” There was a roar in the bar. Guthrie swore. “Hang onto the ball. What are they paying this moron?”

I guess some guy on TV had dropped a pass.

“Why?” he asked.

“I’m just piecing together some things for a book I’m working on. It’s about grieving.” That was my third or fourth lie today No, fifth. In the last fifteen minutes. Not a good ratio. “You don’t happen to remember the funeral director’s name?”

I heard him rattle the ice in his glass. “Shykovsky D.A. Shykovsky. Never did find out what the initials stood for. ‘Dead Already’ maybe. The man was a ghoul.”

“That I do remember. His suit and that awful purple tie. Right out of
The Addams Family.
We started calling him Lurch.”

“Lurch Shykovsky. That’s the dude. He’s probably still there. His dad started the place.”

“Shykovsky Funeral Home isn’t too catchy,” I conceded. “No wonder they went with Sutter.”

“Shoulda gone with Beringer,” he said. “Big mistake. Anything else going on?”

“Not much. Classes just started. The little darlings are back on campus. Eager young minds, ready to learn. You?”

“I’m about three months away from cutting my own throat. If this transfer doesn’t work out, I’m changing careers. I have no
passion for assuring the world of unfettered access to digital cell phone technology.”

“Maybe you could open the Beringer Chardonnay Funeral Home.”

He laughed. My brother has a great sense of humor. I’m always honored when I make him laugh.

“Oh, and Cleo said to hurry right on home. I think she misses you.”