Priced to Move

“How would anyone know that? Unless he’d called ahead to make an appointment, like he used to do with us. And how are we supposed to know if he made any appointments?

There are millions of jewelers in the U.S. You don’t expect me to know them all, do you?”

“Did he ever come to the U.S. just for fun?”

His turn for one of those helpless shrugs.

“Exactly. I’m not ready to start pointing fingers, but we both agree the killer has to be someone who buys stones from him. And I don’t buy the random jeweler theory.”

That gets to him. He sits way up, his back ramrod straight, his shoulders square. “I hope you’re not hinting what I’m afraid you are. Because if you are, then you’re dead wrong. I didn’t do a thing to that man.”

“You think I’m accusing you of killing Mr. Pak?”

“I know how your mind works—if it stinks of rotten fish in Denmark, then there just might be rotten fish in Denmark. Or in this case, in Manhattan.”

“Give me a break, Roger Hammond. What you smell is New York fumes. Remember? Trash sits out on the sidewalk for days before the sanitation guys come get it.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Bingo! And what you think I meant isn’t what I meant. I didn’t come here to accuse you. I came to talk because you know more people in the gem world than Leno knows in Hollywood. Who else would I go to for help figuring out this mess?”

“All right, all right.” He rubs his forehead, holds his splayed-out hands in a gesture of pure helpless ignorance, then squeezes his eyes shut, wrinkles his nose, and gives his head a couple of small shakes. “You’ve got to admit, a guy’s going to feel the bull’s-eye on his forehead if someone comes in out of the blue and starts talking murder conspiracies.”

“I’m sorry. And you’re right. I must have come off as some bad TV gumshoe. But you know? When some creep turns you into target practice while you’re crashing and bumping down rutted dirt roads, you tend to look at your world through suspicion-colored glasses.”

“Can’t say I blame you.” He’s quiet for a minute . . . two. I prop my behind against his desk again.

Roger tents his hands, then, “His rubies, huh?”

“Why else? I don’t think anyone’s that sick of his mouthy parrot. At least, not to the point of rubbing out the guy— instead of the bird, that is.”

His laugh sputters out. “Rubbing out the guy?” Another laugh. “Andie! What have you been doing down in your backwater? Watching prehistoric B movies? That’s awful.”

“So’s walking into your employer’s vault and finding a dead guy—a dead guy you’ve known for a couple of years and liked very much.”

His humor vanishes. “I can’t imagine how that must have felt. But look at it from my point of view. I’d heard nothing about Pak’s death until you walked in and stunned me with the news.”

“I’m surprised. I told the cops I’d met Mr. Pak through you.”

“Well, they didn’t come here to ask questions. You did.” I wink. “And how did I do?”

“Weird. But that’s normal—for you.”

I throw a play punch at his shoulder. “That’s support for ya.” A glance at my watch tells me my flight home might just leave without me. “So you can’t think of anything that could help.”

“Nothing, Andie. Nothing comes to me. Sorry. Wish I could help. This can’t be a good time for you.”

“You’re right about that.” I jump off the desk. “And you can imagine what it’s done to Aunt Weeby.”

“Her?” He laughs. “She must be in her element, playing sleuth.”

“Bite your tongue! Miss Mona left Aunt Weeby in charge of her brand-new, very successful TV shopping channel.”

“Are you kidding! For all that Miss Mona of yours knows, your aunt’s already turned it into . . . oh, I don’t know. Maybe a brokerage for . . . I’ve got it! Pygmy angora goats with blue fur. Is that insane enough for her?”

Aunt Weeby and a herd of fluffy blue goats. “That’s scarier than a Stephen King book.”

“Your aunt’s scarier than Stephen King.”

“But so lovable.”

“And way older than you. You’re at the age where you need to come back to New York and get a life.”

“Look who’s talking, Mr. I’m-Working-Too-Many-Hours-For-My-Wife. You want me back here so I really don’t have a life, like you!”

“I have a life.”

“Sure you do. And an angry wife—”

The bell on the front door chimes into my words. “Roger?” a woman asks.

“And that angry wife’s here,” I say. I grab my handbag, drop a quick kiss on Roger’s suddenly greenish cheek, and head for the back door. “Gotta go. She’s all yours, pal.”

“Traitor,” he mutters, then steps toward the front. “I’m here, honey! What brings you to the store?”