Priced to Move

“I didn’t.” He smiles into the camera. More women drop. “But just looking at it made me think of a romantic dinner, lit by tall, white, glowing candles.”

Oooohh, he’s good. From behind the camera, Sally gestures that the phone lines have gone ballistic thanks to Max. I’ve got to put the brakes on before this show turns into Romancing the Max.

“And that, ladies,” I say, “is exactly what you’ll be wearing on your finger . . . or near your heart. A memory of romance, of elegance, and that certain excitement that comes with life’s special moments. Now what girl wouldn’t love that?”

The show unravels from there on out. The good news is that we put a number of gushing customers through on the phones. The bad news is that they proclaim Max and me their favorite show hosts. I can’t believe there are people out there who can stand this seesaw between knowledge and . . . well, you decide. But they do buy diamonds. A lot of diamonds.

So we score a debacle again. A debacle about which everyone raves. You can’t account for taste.

By the time the network’s theme music brings the show to a close, I’m shot. It takes a lot out of you to keep up a conversation with America while you also do damage control for a lunk’s bloopers.

And, as if that’s not bad enough, when I reach the green room, where I left my briefcase before the show, my day takes a turn to the even worse. How, you ask?

Chief Clark is waiting for me.

Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby are with him, as well as what must be a plainclothes detective. I don’t really worry about the loony two—well, I do worry about them, just not the same way. They know I had nothing to do with Mr. Pak’s trip or with his death or even his turning up in our vault.

“Miss Andie,” the lawman says, “the coroner finished the autopsy, and Mr. Pak died of blunt-force trauma to the head, just like I figured he had.”

I fight the sadness, sigh, and then say, “Okay. I’m sorry he’s dead, and I will miss him. He was great to deal with, and he handled the finest rubies on earth. What I don’t get is why you felt the need to come all the way over here to share this.”

“Maybe”—he draws an envelope from his pocket—“this will help you ‘get’ why I came on over today. The coroner found it.”

I take the envelope, an official-looking, heavy vellum deal, with my name written in exquisite calligraphy. “How weird is this?”

The geriatric pals hustle over. Miss Mona peers over my shoulder and Aunt Weeby takes hold of my hand to bring the envelope close.

“Ooooh . . . ,” Miss Mona coos.

“Aaaah . . . ,” Aunt Weeby sighs.

“Whoa!” Max comes to a standstill just inside the door. “Did someone else die?”

Does this guy ever think before he blurts?

I jiggle the envelope in my hand—and Aunt Weeby’s. “No,

Max. No more corpses around here. The chief brought me this. He says the coroner found it on Mr. Pak while doing the . . . the autopsy.”

I just can’t get my head around the thought of someone cutting up a dead person to figure out what killed him. How can people do that day in and day out? I couldn’t, that’s for sure.

I mean, really. Think about it. Mr. Pak is dead. By the time a coroner gets a corpse, it’s cold, stiff. Certainly not the person anyone has known in life. A shudder runs through me. Dead bodies . . .

Then I realize everyone’s staring at me. “What? Did I do something wrong? Say something?”

“No, sugarplum.” Aunt Weeby pats my cheek. “But you just seemed to . . . oh, I don’t know. You seemed all spacey-like. Are you feeling peckish?”

Peckish . . . Great-Great-Grandma Willetta’s fish oil! Ugh.

I give her a hug and drop a kiss on her cheek. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking about Mr. Pak.”

“Well?” Max says. “Are you going to open it? Everyone’s waiting on you.”

“I doubt the chief is waiting with bated breath. He—or someone in his office—already opened it.”

I suspect they also checked it for fingerprints, even though I don’t see any of the black dust you see used on those CSI shows. The cover of the card has an ornate seal engraved in gold. My heart does a tap dance against my rib cage as I run my finger over the seal.

But that measly little tap dance is nothing compared to the stampede that breaks out when I read the message inside. “Oh! Oh, oh, oh! I—Oh. My. Goodness. I can’t believe this!”

“Andrea Autumn Adams! Get ahold a’ yourself, sugarplum. You’re spitting and spurting and making no sense at all. What is that card there all about?”

I’m near hyperventilating, and I really don’t want to pass out. Not in front of Max the Magnificent, that’s for sure. But this is incredible—for a gemologist, that is.

“Oh, Miss Mona, look. You’re not going to believe this. It’s an invitation. I just don’t understand why he would have this with him, and why they’d invite me—us—in the first place.”

Miss Mona plunks her fists on her hips and gives me a stern look. “Who invited you? Who’s ‘us’? And what’d we get invited to? And where?”

I keep blinking, but the words still read the same. I hold out the card. “Here. You read it. I’m afraid I’m