dreaming or hallucinating or . . . or something.”
My boss takes the card and seconds later she’s spitting and spurting, as Aunt Weeby said, just like I did.
“Andie, honey! Is this real? The government of Myanmar is really inviting us to visit their mines? You do know what kind of politicking trouble’s been going on out there, don’t you?”
“Of course I know. Mr. Pak, Roger, and I talked about Myanmar more’n a million times. It’s awful the oppression going on there—you know, the government squashes political parties, there’s forced labor of adults and kids, human trafficking. It’s bad.”
“And now this . . .” She waves the card.
“It looks real, don’t you think?”
She studies the card again. “I wouldn’t know real from not, but it sure does look like it’s official, at least someone important must have put it together. But I reckon we can check to see if it’s real. We can call the embassy—oh, that’s right. No diplomatic relations. They don’t have an embassy in the U.S., do they?”
A scrap of info tickles the back of my memory. “You know . . . the last time Mr. Pak came to New York, he mentioned that Myanmar had begun to offer thirty-day visas for tourist travel inside the country. They might have an embassy now.” I wave the invitation. “Do you think this might be part of that effort to open things up?”
“Who knows? Who cares? All I know is that this invitation is a golden opportunity for us, for the S.T.U.D. Network.”
“Okay,” I say, still unconvinced. “Tourism or not, that military dictatorship’s not crazy about Americans and Brits—one of those sanction deals. And our government isn’t crazy about them—that communism and organized violence against their people—the whole human rights issues thing.”
A shrill whistle pierces my eardrums, my brain, total consciousness. It makes both Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona stumble.
Max, of course. His whistle’s almost as good as mine.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“Because from what you and Miss Mona have said so far, we can figure out you’ve been invited to something- or-other in Myanmar—something to do with mines, but you two haven’t let the rest of us in on the whole thing. ”
I give Aunt Weeby an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. But this is so exciting, I can’t get my brain to unscramble. It says it’s from the Myanmar government—Myanmar’s what most people know as Burma—and they’re inviting me, and the S.T.U.D. Network, to feature the Mogok Valley on the show. That’s where the world’s most fantastic rubies come from. But the deal is, they aren’t good buddies with our government.” “You’re still telling me you didn’t know the victim was coming here, Miss Andie? Or bringing this invite to you?”
Only now do I remember Chief Clark. And his silent shadow. “Of course I had no idea. I’ve told you over and over I didn’t know he was coming.”
The chief’s not about to let it go. “When was the last time you spoke to that there Mr. Pak?”
I think back. “About six months ago. He brought my boss in New York a small lot of Burma-ruby solitaires, a few good Ceylon sapphires, and some nice Cambodian blue zircons. We only bought the rubies, since the price has gone up so high. Besides, not many customers are willing to pay for the Burma material when they can get stones from Madagascar with almost the same quality, and for a fraction of the cost. We passed on the sapphires and the zircons.”
“I still smell me a skunk,” the chief says. “You come to town, and this dead guy follows.”
“Why, Donald! That poor man there didn’t follow Andie
“I mean to find me that someone, no matter who it turns out to be.”
I give him a leery look. “Do you
He shrugs. “I can’t arrest you since I have millions of witnesses.”
Talk about a non-answer.
Max laughs. “So that’s the perfect alibi—a TV show.”
I give him a crooked grin. “I guess I scored, huh?”
“With the show and that invite. Are you going?”
I shrug. “It’s up to Miss Mona. But I’ll tell you what. Because Mr. Pak is dead, and he did bring me that invitation, and fewer than few gemologists ever get to visit those amazing mines, I’m ready to jump at the chance.”
I don’t mention that I really want to look around, check out what’s up in Myanmar. For real. Mr. Pak’s problems must have started back there. And I want to wipe that suspicious look from the chief’s face. It doesn’t bode well for my future around here.
What can I say? I suppose if I’m really pushed, I can’t say I blame the chief for trying to make a connection. Not only did I find the dead man, but I’m also the only one who knew him.
The chief doesn’t look half as thrilled with my prospects as I am. “I gotta say, I don’t cotton to this trip of yours. If I had my druthers, I’d lock you up. But you’re Miz Weeby’s niece, you work for Miss Mona, and I’d have a hard time arresting you.”
His stubbornness and that silent pal of his are really getting to me. “You also have those million viewers to deal with. Max is right”—did I just give him credit?—“I have an ironclad alibi.” I gotta grin at my TV cop line.
“Donald, dear,” Aunt Weeby says, “go on home or the station or the donut shop, you take your pick. Andie’s innocent.
