“Oh, brother!” I croaked, thwacking the tabletop with my still-gloved hand. “Sweeny and his boys are working much harder to recover the diamonds than they ever did to find Judy’s killer. That really burns me up!”
“You and me both,” Abby chimed in, joining us at the table. “But you know what really fries m y tush?” she added, talking to me but focusing her gaze and full attention on Terry. “They wouldn’t even know about the diamonds if Whitey hadn’t found them and taken them to the station!” Flames of indignation (and, if you ask me, infatuation) were blazing in her beautiful brown eyes.
“And if you hadn’t designed such a great disguise for me,” Terry said to her, “I would have been arrested today.” He was staring at Abby with a look of sheer awe and gratitude on his face. And what was that glow I saw spreading across his cheeks? Was that a blush? I studied it more closely and decided it was. No doubt about it. Terry was smitten. He had finally flipped for Abby. I had known it would happen eventually and, frankly, I was surprised it had taken so long. Abby’s potent charms-like her powerful cocktails-usually took effect immediately.
“But what about the diamonds?” I said, hating to spoil the magnetism of the moment, but dying to know if there were any new keys to the crime. “Did any of the dealers recognize the jewelry or know where it came from?”
“Every single piece came from Tiffany’s!” Abby piped, happily jumping from one source of rapture to another.
“Aunt Dora identified the settings immediately. She said each item came from the same line-a rare and much sought-after Tiffany design that originated in the early thirties. And because of this, Judy’s jewelry is worth even more than thirty thousand. Aunt Dora says the true value is in the vicinity of thirty-six to thirty-eight grand!” She was thrilled to the point of hyperventilation.
I mulled over Abby’s news for a moment, then fired off a few burning questions: “Did your aunt or any of your other relatives ever see these particular pieces before? Do they have any idea who the original owner could be? Have they ever heard of Gregory Smythe?”
“No to all of the above.”
“Do they know if the diamonds were ever stolen? By somebody other than Terry, I mean.”
“They haven’t heard anything about that,” Abby said. “And that’s the point, you dig? My cousin Mitchell says if a collection of beautiful vintage jewelry like this had been reported stolen, then every dealer in the exchange would know about it-either through the police or industry gossip. So, since nobody there has heard even a whisper about any such heist, you can pretty much bet it never happened.”
“Or was never reported,” I amended.
“But that’s a crazy idea!” Abby cried. “Who in their right mind wouldn’t report a robbery that big? You’re talking thirty-eight thousand dollars worth of diamonds! Nobody’s going to take that kind of hit sitting down. And what about the insurance? You can’t collect the insurance if you don’t report the theft.”
“Yes, but… oh, I don’t know…” Abby’s words made perfect sense to me, but I still had my doubts-vague misgivings I couldn’t explain.
And Terry had some doubts of his own. “You can’t report a theft if you’re dead,” he said, growing sad, obviously brooding about what had happened to his sister.
I put my hand over his and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. “That’s certainly true, Terry,” I said, “and it’s entirely possible there could be other deaths connected to these diamonds. But we have no way to check that out right now, so we can’t waste our time speculating. We have to focus on the only two facts we know-that the jewelry came from Tiffany’s and was given to Judy by Gregory Smythe-and then follow the trail from there.”
“Did you get Smythe’s address or phone number yet?” Abby asked
“No,” I admitted, downing the rest of my drink. “Roscoe wouldn’t blab.” I gave Abby and Terry a full account of my latest excursions-to the Chelsea Realty office and Judy’s apartment and the Green Monkey-sadly acknowledging my total failure to unearth any new leads, and ending my dismal tale with the alarming revelation that Elsie had told Roscoe my real name. “She told him where I work, too!” I said (okay, shrieked). “And all he needs is a phone book to find out where I live!” To say that I was beside myself is putting it rather mildly. I was beneath myself and above myself as well.
“What the hell was that woman thinking?!” Abby cried, eyes blazing again.
“The problem is that she wasn’t thinking,” I said.
Abby gave me a sidelong look and snarled, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that!”
Her vehement demeanor brought me up short. “What do you mean?”
“I mean who is this old dame anyway? And how do you know she really was like a mother to Judy? All you have is her own word for it! For all we know, she could be in cahoots with Roscoe Swift. Or even teamed up with Gregory Smythe! She could be a crazy cat burglar… or a deranged killer. Or both rolled into one!”
Abby’s wild conjectures almost made me laugh out loud. Almost, but not quite. Because as amused as I was trying to visualize a beastly murderer with Toni-waved blue hair, or a large ungainly cat burglar with a sprig of holly pinned to her hat, I didn’t find it so funny when a more common image sprang suddenly to mind. An image I’d seen many times before. A wide-screen technicolor close-up of John Wayne firing a gun.
But the Duke was always the good guy, right?
“Oh, I don’t think Elsie had anything to do with it, Abby!” I protested. “In the first place, Vicki Lee Bumstead confirmed that Judy and Elsie were very close. She said Judy told her that Elsie was the mother she’d always wished for. And in the second place, Elsie doesn’t seem to have any idea how much Judy’s diamonds were worth. She thinks they were made of paste.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what she says, but do you always believe everything anybody tells you?” Abby’s right eyebrow was hoisted so high you could’ve parked a Chevy under it.
“Well, no, but…”
“I agree with Paige,” Terry broke in, giving Abby a penetrating look. “I only had one conversation with Elsie,” he said, “and even then we weren’t alone. Sweeny was there, too.” He pronounced the not-so-diligent detective’s name with a drawl of disgust. “But Elsie struck me as a solid citizen,” he said with passionate intent… “a woman of very strong character-and a true friend to my sister.”
Well, that was all Abby needed to hear. One word from her smoldering new flame, and she was ready to capitulate-arched eyebrow and all. “Then consider the subject dropped,” she said, leaning toward him in sultry obedience. “Any true friend of your sister’s is a true friend of mine.”
(Translation: “I’m yours. Do what you will with me.”)
It was time for me to leave.
“Okay, kids, I’m splitting,” I said, grabbing my purse and the shopping bag and standing up from my chair. “I’ve got to go call Vicki, see if she got the dope on Smythe.” I was glad I was still wearing my hat and coat and gloves. The less to pick up and carry, the better. (When you’re the third wheel in an amorous encounter on the verge of its first encountering, it is-in my opinion-a good idea to wheel out of the vicinity as quickly and efficiently as possible.)
My speedy retreat was uncontested. A grateful glance from Terry, a happy wink from Abby, and I was gone.
AS I WAS LETTING MYSELF INTO MY OWN apartment, I remembered the diamonds. I had left them next door. I thought of going back to get them-so I could return them to the clever concealment of their oatmeal box hideaway-but I quickly decided against it. I figured they’d be much safer at Abby’s place now-now that m y place was as incognito as the Chrysler Building.
As soon as I had set down my shopping bag and shucked off all my outerwear, including my snowboots, I sat down on the couch/door/daybed, tucked my cold feet up under my bottom, and dialed Vicki. She answered the phone herself.