The Jewelry Case Read online

  Then she remembered her conversation with Shirley at lunchtime. No, not a monster truck rally. A Berkeley student was likely to have more intellectual hobbies. Maybe he and his date were going to an anti-war demonstration, or a foreign movie, or a raw-food restaurant.

  Remembering that she was still holding the cardboard box, she hurried to the kitchen and got a sharp knife. Forgetting Ian's plans, she found her hand trembled slightly, and she had to wait a moment before carefully slicing through the fragile brown tape and lifting off the lid. Then she stood, staring down at its contents.

  Chapter Six

  Paisley's heart sank as she took in the box's interior. No jewels. Nothing but an old doll with a cracked china head and soiled clothes, a child's tea set, a molding bird's nest, and a folded letter. The treasure was nothing but a cache of sentimental keepsakes, valueless to anyone but the person who had put them there.

  Shoving aside her disappointment, she picked up the doll and examined it. The stuffing in the cloth body was coming out, and the lace on the once-pink dress was torn and filthy, as if someone had dragged it through a ditch. The porcelain head smiled coquettishly up at her. She turned the doll over, wondering idly how old it was. Seventy-five years? A hundred? She had seen something like it on Antiques Roadshow once that had been in far better condition. This one might fetch twenty bucks. If that much.

  Then her eye fell on the letter, and her interest rose slightly. The thin faded-blue paper, almost like tissue, was folded over in such a way that it served as an envelope as well as stationery. She carefully opened it and experienced her second stab of disappointment. The tiny, precise handwriting was in a foreign language she didn’t recognize. Even the shape of many of the letters were unfamiliar.

  She put the envelope back in the box without bothering to take out the china tea set. Like the doll, it was cracked and obviously worthless.

  She set the box on a shelf in her bedroom closet, then rested her forehead against the newly painted door, trying to overcome her disappointment, which was made keener by an even more unpleasant sensation of guilt. She was uncomfortably aware that she had been unfair to Ian. He had gone to the trouble to save the box for her, although he had obviously been as curious as she was.

  Why hadn't he opened it? She suspected most workmen might not have hesitated to look inside. Had there valuables inside, he could have kept it, and she would never have known about the discovery. But he had not looked. The old, fragile tape had remained intact, the thick layer of dust a testament to his honesty.

  A voice inside whispered she should have allowed Ian to share the excitement of opening the box with her. It would have cost her nothing. Her refusal seemed ... selfish. Maybe that's what greed did to a person, she thought with a sudden pang of self-loathing. She had hoped Ruth's jewels were inside the box, and she had wanted to hoard the discovery to herself. To think Shirley had called her a mensch!

  Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow she would show Ian the box's contents. That would salve her conscience, and redeem herself in his eyes. She did not ask herself why that should matter. It just did.

  #

  The next day, however, Paisley's resolve wavered. She had remembered something she had overlooked in her burst of sentimentality last night: Ian was working under false pretenses. Weren't there legal ramifications for remodeling without a license? All the work might have to be torn down and done over, and she had neither the time nor the money for that.

  But as she looked around at the renovations that had taken place, they appeared to her untrained eye to have been done beautifully. No, she decided, there was no reason to report him to whomever one was supposed to report such things to.

  When Ian's work crew arrived, Ian's expression was reserved. The "hot date" didn't seem to have improved his mood.

  From her vantage on the front porch, she watched him walk up the path, his helpers behind him. As a means of atonement for her rudeness, she had arisen early and baked muffins using a recipe she had found in the old cookbook from the pantry, and the house smelled heavenly. The golden-topped muffins were studded with plump blueberries she had plucked from one of the bushes in the back yard.

  As Ian approached and saw the basket of muffins waiting on the side table by the front door, his reserved expression brightened. "Hey, these look homemade!" he said, bending over and sniffing. "I wouldn't have thought you were the type of woman who cooks/."

  "I can't imagine why you would assume that," she said, not sure whether to be offended. "I love to cook, when I have time."

  It was true. She wasn't much of a homebody, but she had always found baking relaxing, although there had been little time for it these past few years. Eating out was more convenient when one lived on the road.

  "But I can't take full credit for these," she added. "The recipe was Esther's. Here, everybody, have one." She passed the basket around to Ian's crew, who had gathered hopefully around.

  After Quinn, Rusty, and Alix gobbled up several muffins each and (reluctantly) withdrawn to finish their work, she pulled up a chair for Ian and nudged the basket closer to his elbow. "Have another one, there's plenty more," she encouraged. "So, what are you working on today?"

  He eyed her as he devoured the muffin, wiping away crumbs with the back of his hand, as if wondering what motive lay behind her sudden affability. "We're finishing the bathroom and putting up drywall in the bedroom, over the wall we tore up yesterday. I brought some paint samples, so you can pick out the color. Light blue would look nice with those dark-blue tiles; it would be historically accurate, too. Or you could try a patterned wallpaper. Tomorrow, we're patching the roof. After that, all that's left is...."

  She listened, nodding from time to time. When Ian finished the last crumb and started to unfold his legs, she stopped him. "Wait a minute. I have something to show you."

  She brought out the unsealed box and set it in front of him, like a cat presenting a gift of a mouse. He looked at it, then at her.

  "I should have shown you this last night," she admitted. "It was your discovery, after all. Go ahead, look inside, but I hope you're not disappointed. It's just some old junk."

  "It's okay, you didn't have to—wow!" He reached into the box and lifted out the letter. "What do you mean, 'junk?' Look at this!"

  She shrugged. "I did. It's just an old letter to Esther."

  "Just an old letter?" he repeated, incredulous. "It's in Polish. Don't you realize, it must be from one of her relatives in Warsaw!"

  She peered over his shoulder. "Really? How can you tell?"

  "Use your brains." He sounded distracted, and there was no hint of insult in his tone as he turned it over to inspect the back. "This letter is about ninety years old. Esther would have just arrived from Poland when this was written. Who else would it be from, but one of her family members that she had left behind?" He squinted at a faint postmark on one of the envelopes. "Hard to make out, but it looks like it says 1930-something. Is that an eight or a nine?"

  She craned further to see. A faint interest was awakening. "A nine, I think. You're right. Do you think this letter might be from Esther's parents?"

  "Or from her grandparents, or one of her aunts and uncles...." He looked at her critically. "You mean you haven't opened it yet? You've had it since last night!"

  "Like I said, I couldn't read it, so…."

  His light-gray eyes widened. "Have you no curiosity, woman?"

  She drew back, her cheeks feeling warm, and her tone grew defensive. "What does it matter, anyway? Everything happened so long ago. And why are you so interested?" An idea dawned, so obvious it took her breath away. "Oh my goodness. You knew Esther well, didn't you? I mean, not just as a handyman or anything like that, but as friend."

  "Of course I was her friend. Everyone around here was, as far as I know."

  Things were growing clearer. Paisley remembered Ian's familiarity with the photograph of Ruth Wegiel in the hallway. "I'll bet you used to come over here and chat with her, just like Shir
ley did, and just like those two men at the senior center. Gee, is there anyone in this town who wasn't one of Esther's buddies?"

  Things were growing clearer, as Paisley remembered Ian's familiarity with the photograph of Ruth Wegiel in the hallway, which had puzzled her that first day. "I'll bet you used to come over here and chat with her, just like Shirley used to do, and those two men at the senior center. Good heavens, is there anyone in this town who wasn't a buddy of Esther?"

  "If there was, I haven't met him." Ian's eyes lit reminiscently. "She was a heck of a lady. I count it a privilege to have known her. That's why I'm so interested in her past. She hardly ever talked about her childhood, but it was obvious she'd been through a lot. She was a survivor, even if she never spent time in a concentration camp."

  "What do you mean, she 'took you under her wing?'" she wondered. "You're too young to have been one of her students. She had already retired by the time she moved to River Bend."

  Ian leaned back in his chair, his long legs sprawled across the porch. His light-gray eyes took on a far-away look. "I used to walk by here on my way home from school every day, and Esther would be sitting here on the porch, right where you're sitting. She'd call me over and stuff me with muffins, just like these, except yours are even better. She'd ask me about my day, listen to my self-pitying complaints about living in a small town, and give me good advice, which sometimes I even followed. She's the one who insisted I apply to Berkeley when my dad died. Helped me get a scholarship, too, or I couldn’t have afforded it."

  "How nice." Paisley's eyes misted over. She had thought Auntie Esther was her own personal good fairy, but it sounded as if Esther had played a similar role for others as well.

  "Take a closer look at this." Ian held out the faded aerogramme. "This is your history now. Who knows? Maybe you'll learn something interesting."

  Shrugging, she bent her head over the letter. "All I can understand is the signature: Adelajda Perleman." The name looked strange, with those unfamiliar accent marks, but it was definitely legible. She looked up. "So you're right. This must be a letter from one of Esther's relatives. But that doesn't help much, since I don't speak Polish any more than you do." She stopped. "Or do you?"

  For all she knew, Ian McMurtry might be able to speak seven languages fluently and juggle flaming batons while riding a unicycle. She was learning new things about him all the time. But he shook his head.

  "Then who could translate it for us?" she wondered. Suddenly she wanted to know what the letter said. Ian's curiosity was contagious, and she had always wanted to know more about Esther. Maybe the letter contained some secrets worth knowing. "There are internet translation programs, but I've heard they aren't very reliable."

  "I know someone who could do it," Ian said, holding out his large hand for the letter. "Do you mind?"

  She was oddly hesitant to give it up. But there was something solid and reliable about him, in spite of—or perhaps because of—his slow speech and lanky physique. His light-gray eyes gazed guilelessly into hers. For the first time, she noticed that they were rather attractive eyes, intelligent and frank, fringed by long lashes several shades darker than his hair. A long-dormant sensation stirred inside her, surprising her.

  "Okay," she said, suddenly shy. She handed over the envelope. "But I want it back."

  "Don't worry." He put the letter in his shirt pocket and patted it reassuringly, then leveraged himself to his feet, smiling down at her. Suddenly she realized why Ian had taken on the job of repairing the house: no doubt, he saw the work as a way of paying his respects to Esther. She wondered why she hadn't suspected as much when he had named his suspiciously low price.

  Feeling a rush of warmth toward him, she returned the lid to the box, and a puff of dust rose into the air. "Thanks again for telling me about this," she told him. "If you find anything else interesting, let me know, okay?"

  Then she mentally kicked herself. Of course he would show her anything he found. He had already proven that, hadn't he? And now she had alerted him that she was looking for something.

  Ian's head came up. "'Anything else'?" he said slowly. "Just how many long-lost boxes are you expecting to be hidden away in these walls, anyway?"

  "That's not what I meant." She tried hard to look innocent. "Just that if you happen to stumble across anything else that seems unusual or odd or...." She snapped her mouth shut.

  A hearty voice boomed out behind them, making her jump: "Well, well, look what the cat dragged in! Hello, Ian. I didn't expect to find you here."

  Engrossed in their conversation, neither of them had seen or heard the black Suburban wending its way up the driveway. She wondered how long Ray had been parked in front of the house listening to their conversation through his open window.

  Ray extricated his bulky frame from the driver's seat and sauntered toward the porch, grinning. She hid the box behind her. Not that it mattered, she told herself. The contents were perfectly innocent. But for some reason, she didn't want anyone else to know about it.

  "So Ian's doing your repairs, eh?" Ray said to Paisley. "What happened to Bruce Harris?"

  "He was busy," Paisley said shortly.

  "You should have told me. I could have moved you to the top of the list. We're old buddies, Bruce and me. Remember, you get what you pay for."

  "Hi, Ray." Ian looked as if a cat had just dropped a lizard tail at his feet. "What a coincidence, you showing up just now."

  "Not really. I heard you'd taken on the job and thought I'd better come out and take a look-see. You can get in a lot of trouble working without a license, you know."

  Ian's prominent ears turned red. "I'll have you know, my license is still valid."

  "Yeah? That's funny. I coulda sworn you told me a couple of years ago you'd rather go to hell than follow your dad's line of business."

  "Nevertheless I kept it. And I took this job because I hated seeing this house falling apart. Not that it's any of your business."

  "Quite an altruist, aren't you, helping out the little lady?"

  The men glared at each other. Paisley wondered how the feud between Ray and Ian's father had started. It probably didn't matter. Like the Hatfields and McCoys, the original offense was usually forgotten in the hostilities that perpetuated the feud.

  "So what brings you here, Ray?" Paisley asked, breaking the stalemate.

  Ray turned toward her, shoulders relaxing. His good-old-boy smile returned. "Like I told you, I heard you were carrying through on your idea about fixing up the house," he said. "Looks to be coming along all right, I guess." His words made her think of future leaks in the roof, and brought to mind Steve's similar vague hints about Ian's incompetence.

  For a moment, she wondered if Ian had, in fact, pulled all the necessary permits, and if he had, indeed, kept his license up-to-date. Although the work looked solid enough to her, the truth was, she had no way of knowing if it was.

  "Still thinking of selling when you're through?" Ray asked, still watching her.

  "You know I am," she said, wondering why he was asking. "I never intended to stay here permanently."

  "Then maybe you'll be interested to know I've got a couple of nibbles. Why don't you come by the office some time, and we'll go over things? Set a price, put up a sign, get the place listed on the MLA...."

  "I'm not ready to do that yet."

  "Remember, it takes time to sell a house. Opportunities don't come along that often, out here." Ray didn't exactly say, "in the sticks," but the implication was clear.

  "Thanks." Realtors, Paisley thought, annoyed. Always trying to drum up sales.

  Ray touched the brim of an imaginary hat, and nodded pleasantly at Ian, whose face was still red with anger. He got into his big black car and drove away.

  She watched until the Expedition disappeared around the curve, then turned on Ian. "Which reminds me," she said accusingly. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  He stared down at her, his face blank. "Tell you what?"

  "That you're not a
real contractor."

  "I am a real contractor," he said. "I worked for my dad every summer after I turned fourteen, and my license doesn't expire for another two months. Want to see?" He pulled a beat-up leather wallet out of his back pocket and waved it at her.

  She wasn't finished. "But when I telephoned that first day, why didn't you tell me your father's business no longer existed?"

  "You needed a job done. Just because I'm studying architecture now doesn't mean I can't pick up a hammer and a saw."

  "That doesn't answer my question," she persisted. "Why didn’t you tell me the truth?"

  He sighed loudly. "When you called me, it was a safe guess that Bruce Harris had tried to skewer you. The guy’s a jerk, and I don’t like the way he runs his business. I knew I could do it for a fraction of what he would charge you."

  "That reminds me: how did you know that I called Bruce Harris first?"

  He heaved a loud sigh. "Because Ray Henderson always feeds his customers to Harris. Old rivalry between him and my dad, going way back. I’ll admit it gave me a little satisfaction to snatch you out of the shark's mouth. Besides," he added, his ears reddening, "I can use some extra money. My scholarship only covers tuition, and textbooks are expensive. On top of that," he paused to take a deep breath, "as I told you, this place has good memories for me. If you'd told me you were going to tear it down, I would have scraped together the money and bought it from you myself."

  She frowned. "That's interesting. Steve told me—"

  "Steve?"

  "Steve Lopez, my neighbor. Do you know him?"

  "As you've noted, this is a small town." Ian sounded grim. "Everybody knows everybody. Yeah, I know Steve. He tends to keep to himself. Good looking, reserved type. Likes the finer things. You and he should get along real well."

  She thought about telling him that Steve had invited her to dinner, and discarded the idea. It was none of Ian’s business.

  "He didn't sound too happy to hear you were working on my house," she admitted. "I understand the professional rivalry between Ray and your dad, but what does Steve have against you?"