The Jewelry Case Page 20

  Paisley felt the conversation was getting farther and farther from reality. She was growing increasingly aware of Ian's warmth, centimeters away, his breath on the top of her head. As she leaned her head back against the cushions, her long hair brushed his shoulder. It seemed a long time since she had thought of him as nothing more than an occasionally annoying handyman.

  Dragging her mind back to the point, she said, "We know it wasn't Aunt Henka. She would have worn those jewels triumphantly and openly, and we wouldn't be sitting here wondering what happened to them."

  Ian scratched his chin. "It could have been one of Aunt Henka's children, but neither of them ever spoke of it or showed unusual wealth in later years. So we're back to Esther taking the jewels out of her treasure box herself."

  "It probably wouldn't have been the first time," Paisley said, picturing a childish Esther decked in her Great-aunt Ruth's glittering finery, playing dress-up. Withdrawing her bare feet from the coffee table, Paisley tucked them under her, and turned to Ian. Their faces were only inches apart. "Of course she wanted to play with the shiny trinkets. What little girl wouldn't?"

  "But that day, she was interrupted before she could put them away," he said slowly. He seemed to be unaware of her nonverbal hint that she was tired of the endless conversation about something that could never be proved, that she was ready to move on to ... something else. "Esther had to find a place to hid them in a hurry. Buried them in leaves, or shoved them under a bush, or dumped them somewhere. It makes sense."

  Paisley buried her head in her hands, her hair spilling over her fingers. "Does it? We're building so much on speculation. We have no way of knowing if any of this is true."

  Remembering her presence, he patted her on the shoulder. "Remember, the scientific method begins with a hypothesis." His tone sounded very much like that of a Berkeley student debating a professor, or, she thought fleetingly, like the TV character Sherman, on Big Bang Theory. "Then you test it to see if the hypothesis pans out. If not, you start over. That's what Sherlock Holmes did. And yes, I know he was a detective, not a scientist, but the point is the same."

  She didn't say what she thought: that Ian was neither a scientist nor Sherlock Holmes. He was a fledgling architect. Architects created things, incredibly elaborate things, out of their imagination. They dreamed things into existence. Which was the opposite of what she was trying to do, which was to pin down what really happened. An impossible task.

  Then she felt ashamed of her mental criticism of the person who had been her greatest ally in the hunt for the jewels. Laying a hand on his forearm, she said, "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, Ian. I know how much time you've taken out to help me, and I don't even know why." It was true. She realized that he did not stand to profit from any of this, whether Ruth Wiegel's rubies were found or not. So why was he spending so much time helping her try to find them?

  "You don't know?" He looked at her and raised one sandy eyebrow. She caught her breath at the expression on his face, then laughed, a little hysterically. She remembered their earlier discussion of opera and passion. If there was one thing long, gangly, intellectual Ian didn't look capable of, it was passion. He certainly hadn't seemed like it a moment ago, when she had snuggled next to him, hoping almost unconsciously that he would pick up on the hint.

  Apparently he was not entirely clueless after all. The next thing she knew, he caught his breath sharply. Then he reached out, pulling her close with unexpectedly strong arms. Working with a hammer these past few weeks had made him buff. Or maybe his body had always been this way, and she just hadn't known it.

  Under his rumpled plaid shirt, she felt a hard chest and his heart, beating rapidly. Her laughter died away as she looked up at him. The expression on his face was perfectly serious, endowing its earnest features with a sort of dignity. She felt a stronger flutter of something she had not felt in a long time, something that Steve with all his good looks and charm had failed to arouse.

  He released her suddenly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I know it's too soon after ... after....

  She cleared her throat and changed the subject back to safe territory. "Never mind. So you're saying when Esther was a little girl, she might have been playing with the jewels when she heard something."

  He seemed grateful for the change of subject as well. "Or saw something."

  "…And quickly hid them wherever she happened to be playing at the time. It couldn't have been her room, or she would have put them back in her treasure box. It probably wasn't in the house."

  "Or they would have turned up by now." It was as if he had forgotten their moment of closeness. He resumed his scholarly air, no doubt, she thought sourly, with relief. "As I said, Aunt Henka was a notoriously meticulous housekeeper. I'll bet she knew every inch of the house and would have seen anything amiss with her beady eyes."

  Paisley could not let this go unchallenged, although she was having trouble getting her mind to stick to the point. "How do you know her eyes were beady?"

  "Trust me, they were." He shuddered. "I saw her when I was a little boy, remember? The woman would have looked at home in a pointed black hat and red-and-white striped socks."

  "So, where are they? Outside? Buried somewhere? Or at a friend's home?" She felt dismayed. When she had believed the jewels might be in the house, the search had seemed daunting enough; now, she realized it was virtually impossible to narrow down the entire outdoors. "She could have put them anywhere."

  "I have no idea." Ian's voice took on a note of uncharacteristic humility. "I wish Georgiana had been able to tell us more about Esther's 'pretty things.' But I guess you were right. All our speculation has got us nowhere." Apparently without thinking, he took her hand in his, and again she felt the warm feeling that had flooded throughout her veins when he had touched her before. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I know how much this meant to you, but I think the hunt is over."

  #

  When he had gone, the house seemed silent once more. Paisley tried to comprehend what had just happened. What was that he had called her? Sweetheart. What a corny, old-fashioned term, like just about everything about him. Of course, the affectionate phrase meant nothing. It was an old-fashioned term, like one would use to a small child or a pet. Nigel called her "darling" all the time, he had no more interest in her, that way, than in the proverbial old shoe.

  But then, Nigel had never held her in his arms as if he were about to kiss her, either.

  To divert her mind from that line of thought, she went to look for Carmen, then remembered with a sound of exasperation that she had given the CD to Ian a few days ago. She put in Aida instead, and turned up the volume on the old stereo full blast. Esther's speakers were unexpectedly powerful: soon, the house echoed with tragic melodies and powerful, swooping voices that fit her mood perfectly. Paisley found herself beginning to sing along, before the tightness in her throat reminded her that she didn't want to risk damaging her healing vocal chords. Still, the first few notes had come out full-bodied and strong. Maybe ....

  She would call her oto-laryngologist tomorrow and see if he could suggest some vocal exercises to strengthen her voice. At least it would get her mind off of other things, things she wasn't ready to think about.

  When the recorded aria ended, she heard a high-pitched, yowling coda through the open window and chuckled. Maybe the cat was an opera lover too. She went to the kitchen and opened a can of tuna, thrilled that the ghost cat was finally making its presence known. It must be getting used to her presence. Maybe, with luck, she could build its trust enough that it would present itself to be petted.

  Carrying the china bowl outside, she peered into the thick growth of bushes. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty."

  She thought she saw the bushes bend and shake slightly near the ground, then nothing. Disappointed, she set the food on the back-door step and straightened, searching carefully through the trees that lined the small back yard for any sign of movement. She sensed the animal was still out there, somewhere,
not far from the house.

  On impulse, Paisley decided to try to track it down. It was high time that she built a relationship with Esther's cat, she thought. After all, they both shared the house and its grounds. It was silly for them to keep avoiding each other.

  As quietly as she could to avoid scaring off the animal, she followed what she imagined was the animal's path. Branches and leaves scratched her arms and tugged at her clothing, but she brushed them away, biting off an exclamation when an unseen twig lacerated her forearm.

  Twenty yards away, the bushes opened into a small clearing, edged with ivy and small pockets of violets. The clearing was occupied by the cat—and someone else.

  Chapter Twelve

  The boy appeared to be sleeping. Reclining against an oak, eyes closed, his face solemn, he appeared, for once, utterly at peace. A gray cloud of fur rested on his lap like a fuzzy purring pillow.

  The bucolic scene reminded her of a French poem she had memorized in high school: The Sleeper in the Glade. Except the "sleeper" in that poem hadn't been sleeping; he'd been dead.

  Embarrassed at invading Kevin's privacy, she made a movement to withdraw, but sensing her presence, he looked up and his eyes widened. A moment later, Kevin was on his feet. The cat swarmed down his leg with an loud, angry meow, and three red stripes appeared on his forearm.

  Her words burst out without thought: "So you're the one who fed the cat!"

  The startled expression cleared, and he relaxed. "I found it prowling by Steve's house after I moved in. It looked hungry. I guess it wasn't used to fending for itself."

  "Why didn't you just adopt it? Keep it at your house?"

  He tensed again, and his face grew shuttered. "Steve wouldn't let me have a pet. Besides, it wasn't much trouble bringing the food over here." He paused. "I had a cat, once. Back in New Jersey."

  She didn't know what to say. The words had sounded so forlorn. Then she got a closer look at his arm and caught her breath. Kevin was rubbing his arm, unconsciously smearing the blood.

  "Stop doing that, you're making a mess." She found a fairly clean tissue in the front pocket of her jeans and dabbed at the scratches. "Come on, I have Band-aids at home."

  "I'm fine." He pulled his arm away, his jaw setting stubbornly. He looked every inch a Perleman.

  The edges of her mouth tugged upward. "Aren't those the same words I used when we met, after being attacked by the cow in the pasture?"

  After a moment, the jaw relaxed. A tentative smile appeared. "Yeah. I remember."

  "Then let me return the favor, huh? Come on." She guided his reluctant steps in the direction of the house.

  #

  "This time, you're the one who was trespassing." She swabbed the scratches with cotton balls and alcohol, ignoring Kevin's wince. "That clearing is on my property, you know."

  "I guess so. But I didn't think of it that way. The clearing is just a quiet place to hang out with the cat, that's all. The only time I went into your house was when—" He stopped as if he'd walked into a wall.

  Gently, she said, "I already knew."

  He turned startled eyes on her. "How?"

  "I found your footprint in the flowerbed after the rain." She nodded at his Vans shoes. "Size ten, right? Same as my husband wore. If you're going to turn to a life of crime, Kevin, you'll have to cover your tracks better. Literally."

  "But if you knew, why didn't you ...?" Suddenly he looked very young.

  "...Turn you in?" She paused to consider, still holding the bottle of hydrogen peroxide. "Good question. I just didn't feel you were out to harm me, somehow. Call it intuition, or just plain stupidity."

  There was a long silence, while he fidgeted. She put the Band-aids back in the drawer and slipped into the chair across the kitchen table from him, searching his face. "Why did you do it, Kevin? I can't think why you would hate me."

  "You're wrong!" he burst out. "I don't hate you."

  "Then why...?

  He didn't answer. She sighed. Getting an adolescent boy to talk was harder than cracking open a walnut with one's bare hands.

  Then he cleared his throat and peered up at her from under his spiky bangs. "Um, Mrs. Pereleman, does this change anything about, ah, you know, the play?"

  "Of course not. I might feel differently if you'd taken anything, or done significant damage but...." She paused. "The fact is, we need you, Kevin. With you as the Pirate King, I think the play could be really good. The Sacramento Bee said they'd send out a reporter to review it. The publicity would be great, for the production and for you."

  His fingers played with the Band-aid, unconsciously rubbing across its surface. "I don't get it. Why do you care?"

  "I don't know," she said, shrugging. "Now that I'm involved, I want the production to be the best it can be, that's all."

  "That's not what I meant." He hesitated. "Why do you care whether the publicity would be good for me? What do I have to do with it?"

  She leaned her elbows on the table, choosing her words with care. "Don't let this go to your head, but you have great natural talent, Kevin. With a couple of years of acting classes, you could go on to a career as a performer, maybe even on Broadway or in the movies. You have the stage presence for it. And the voice."

  He was listening, intently, his eyes fastened on hers. "You really think so?"

  She straightened in her chair. "Of course I can't promise anything. An entertainment career depends a great deal on luck. But I believe those with real talent usually make it to the top, especially if they have the right connections. I know a few people in the business, and I'd be happy to put in a word for you. So yes, Kevin, you do have a chance, if that's the path you choose."

  He sat silently, as if envisioning the future she had painted. She remembered hearing him practicing guitar in his room, his performance at open mic night. Of course he had dreamed of being successful. What kid his age hadn't? But until now, he had probably not seen a career in music a real possibility. Then he pushed back his chair and stood. "Thanks for the Band-aid, Mrs… I mean, Paisley. I'll think about what you said."

  "Great." She stood up with him. "I'll pick you up for practice tomorrow. We might as well car pool, being neighbors."

  "Okay. Sure."

  Not long after Kevin left, she began to second-guess herself. She'd just let him off the hook for burglarizing her house, and even promised to help him start a career in show business, a fairly hefty commitment. Why? Just because she felt sorry for the kid? Because she was impressed by his undeniable talent?

  Kevin's step-father had called him "troubled," which hinted the boy may have done such things before. Perhaps she was not really doing the boy any favors by helping him evade the consequences of his actions.

  Tidying up the kitchen, she realized she had never pressed him on why Kevin had broken into her house. He didn't seem the type who did such things for a thrill. In fact, she suspected he had been about to tell her the reason, but something had stopped him.

  At least, Paisley thought, she believed his claim that he had not invaded her home out of malice, and that he had no intention of harming her. Perhaps because she was a soft-hearted fool, she believed him. But that left the question dangling: why, then, had he done it?

  #

  By rights, she should have had trouble going to sleep. Instead, she slept soundly, dreaming once again of the dark-haired opera singer from the past. After a longer-than-usual bubble bath, she started for the stairs to prepare breakfast, humming her favorite aria from Carmen, which still lingered in her head.

  As she made her way down each step of the staircase, a strong sense of déjà vu swept over her, almost as if she were in the dream again, making a grand entrance onto the baroque stage of the Paris Opera. Her surroundings melted away. In her imagination, she wore a ruffled scarlet gown, tightly fitted in the bodice and sweeping around her ankles like the petals of a hollyhock, her black hair curled high atop her head.

  As if still in the dream, she sensed the hush of the people s
taring up at her; the satin sashes across men's chests, denoting nobility; the peacock feathers and sparkling jewels in the upswept curls of the women ... all of them staring up at her, longing to hear her sing.

  Without her having willed it, her mouth opened and the words of the song poured out. "L'amour est enfant de bohême, qui n'a jamais, jamais connu de loi...." Richly, effortlessly, the notes swelled to the aria's magnificent crescendo: "Si tu ne m'aimes pas, je t'aime, et si je t'aime, prends garde à toi!"

  The old house’s high ceilings created excellent acoustics. The notes glided seductively higher and higher, the beautiful gypsy's sensuous challenge reaching to the final row of the upper balcony. The air was still vibrating like the strings of a violin when at the bottom of the stairs she bumped into a tall figure and was jolted out of her trance.

  "You!” she blurted. “What are you doing in here?"

  "Wow." Ian’s eyes were wide and his mouth hung open as he stared at her as if he had never seen her before.

  Embarrassed at having been watched when she thought she was alone, she spoke angrily. "How long have you been standing there?"

  "Long enough." Neither of them had moved; they were inches apart. "You didn't answer my knock, so I let myself in." He paused, the odd look still on his face. "I thought you had the stereo on. Playing one of those old albums of Esther’s."

  "Why are you here?" she asked again, ignoring his comment. "It's Saturday. You don't work weekends."

  "Never mind." He kept staring down at her, his expression still stunned. "Let me process this for a minute. I didn't know you had a voice like that. You sounded like a ... like a freight train."

  "A freight train?" Insulted, she tried to back away, but he reached out and pulled her close, so close that she could feel the warmth of his body.

  "In volume only," he amended. His breath stirred the hair at her temple. "A beautiful and extremely loud freight train. I thought you couldn't sing anymore."