The Blue Moon Read online

  He carried the necklace over to a microscope set up on one of the counters and peered through the eyepiece at the blue gem. “There are a couple of small flaws, certainly to be expected in a gem this size. They’re rather unusually shaped, with a distinctive feathering, but I doubt they would detract much from the value. And the half-carat diamonds are of excellent quality.”

  “Well.” At the moment Abby couldn't think of anything more astute to say.

  “Would you like to look?” He stepped back and motioned toward the microscope.

  Abby looked. She was familiar enough with the workings of a microscope. She’d studied everything from feathers to bird mites to bird bones with one. But what she saw in the blue diamond was mostly magnified dazzle.

  “The styling of the necklace is quite modern, and the way the tiny diamonds are mounted to make a flexible strand is a technique that's come into use only recently. But the cut of the blue diamond is what is called a cushion cut. It's still used, and it's come back in popularity somewhat, but basically it's an old-fashioned cut. It was very popular during the late 1800s.”

  Gordon smiled, a man who obviously enjoyed his work and was extremely knowledgeable. “It's said that this was a great cut for candlelight. More romantic than modern cuts, which show up better under electric lights.”

  “And all this means . . . ?”

  “My personal opinion is that it means the diamond was originally cut a good many years ago but was reset relatively recently, probably within the last ten years or so. The smaller diamonds are the more modern, round brilliant cut. I don't recognize the styling of the necklace as belonging to any particular designer, and there are no identifying marks on it. But the necklace is definitely not antique, although the blue diamond itself could be considered antique. I hope I’m not just confusing you?”

  “No, not at all.” At least not about the difference between the stone's being antique and the setting and styling modern. But Abby was more confused than ever about the fact that the necklace had been hidden in her desk. Three million dollars! And no one had ever come looking for it.

  “There are a number of very well known blue diamonds,” Gordon added. “The Hope Diamond is probably the most famous, somewhere around forty-five carats. It's in the Smithsonian now, but it's supposed to have originally come from the eye of an idol in India. King Louis XIV once owned it, but it later disappeared during the French Revolution. Then it resurfaced and came to be known as the Hope Diamond when an English banker named Henry Thomas Hope owned it.”

  Abby had been to the Smithsonian, of course, when she lived and worked back east at Cornell University's Lab of Ornithology. But she’d been interested in exhibits of natural history, not gems.

  “The history of large, valuable stones is often well documented, then?” she asked.

  “Oh yes. Although, for various reasons, they sometimes disappear and the history ends in mystery. King Louis XIV owned another one called The Blue Tavernier, also from India, but it was stolen in the late 1700s and has never been found. And then there's a famous blue diamond called the Wittelsbach. It's had various royal owners, disappeared in the early 1930s and then resurfaced about 1962.”

  “You’re very knowledgeable,” Abby commented.

  “There's a lot more I don't know than I do know,” Gordon said modestly, “but I find the subject of all precious gems fascinating. Blue diamonds have a reputation for being rather bad luck for their owners, although I’m not a believer in such superstitions. But one thing I do know. Although I had a big jewelry store in Tacoma for many years before retiring and coming here—”

  “This is retired?” Abby glanced around the well-stocked jewelry store.

  Gordon smiled a bit ruefully. “I found I couldn't give it up completely and just sit around watching my wife make quilts.” Briskly he went back to what he’d started to say. “In any case, in all those years in the jewelry business in Tacoma, I never saw anything like this necklace. Never.”

  Abby nodded, still at a loss for words.

  “I’d be most interested in anything you could …or wanted . . . to tell me about the history of the diamond or the necklace,” Gordon added. He paused as if considering what she’d said earlier about holding the necklace for someone else. “I take it you’d prefer not to reveal the owner's name?”

  “Actually, ownership at this point is somewhat . . . murky.”

  That statement brought a lift of Gordon's gray eyebrows, but he discreetly remained silent, waiting for her to continue. Abby glanced around, wondering if the clerk was close enough to overhear. But she was at the far end of the room, still polishing glass. Abby almost told Gordon the circumstances of finding the necklace, but then decided it would be best to keep that information to herself for the time being.

  “I’d really like to find out more of the necklace's history myself, if that's possible,” she said instead.

  “I could make some inquiries. Someone should know something about a stone this large and valuable, especially if it's been reset in the last few years.”

  “I’d want everything kept confidential.”

  “Yes, of course. I can keep the inquiries very discreet. There's no need to offer unnecessary details.”

  “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

  “May I take a photo? It could be helpful for identification purposes when I make the inquiries.”

  Abby nodded, and he motioned her to follow him to the rear of the room. There he had another piece of equipment. It consisted of a round, white dome, perhaps nine inches high, with an opening that exposed a small, tilting platform.

  “This is a digital camera especially set up for photographing jewelry,” Gordon explained. “This is the lens up here.” He fingered a black object that looked a little like a telescope pointed at the platform. “It projects an image on the screen over there.” This time he motioned to a screen similar to her own computer screen. “And then the printed photo comes out over there.”

  Smoothly the jeweler went through the process he had just described. The image of the necklace appeared on the screen, and a moment later he handed Abby an excellent color photo that showed an enlarged view of the necklace. He then took a separate photo, concentrating on the blue diamond itself.

  “The larger size offers more detail and aids identification,” he explained.

  He printed off several copies of the photos, gave her one of each and carefully handed the necklace back to her.

  “You do have a secure place to keep it, don't you?”

  Abby realized she hadn't thought that far ahead. She’d assumed the necklace must be fairly valuable, but to her that meant several hundred dollars, a few thousand at most. But three million? She’d never before even been in the vicinity of a piece of jewelry worth three million, let alone responsible for such a valuable item.

  “No. I . . . I don’t,” she said finally, halfway beginning to wish she’d never decided to clean out her desk drawers today.

  “We have a safe in back.” Gordon motioned to a door at the rear of the store, but his expression was troubled. “But I’m afraid, given the value of this necklace, and the liability involved if anything happened . . .”

  “Yes, of course, I understand.”

  “You might want to consider a safe deposit box at the bank.”

  Abby leaped on the suggestion with relief. “Yes! That's a perfect idea for where to put it until I can talk to Sergeant Cobb.” And she and Mary already had a box at the bank.

  “Sergeant Cobb?” Gordon repeated, as if that connection raised more questions, and Abby realized she’d said more than she’d intended to.

  “I’ll go over to the bank right now.”

  Gordon looked as if he’d definitely like to quiz her, but he was obviously too much of a gentleman to be overly nosy. Instead, with a glance at the clock at the rear of the room, he said, “You’d better hurry. It's almost five o’clock now.”

  Yes, hurry, Abby thought as her gaze also flew to the c
lock. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  “I’ll let you know if my inquiries turn up anything,” Gordon said.

  Hastily Abby rearranged the necklace in the box and stuffed both box and photographs in the plastic sack. She grabbed her umbrella and hurried to the door, eager to get to the bank with all possible speed.

  What she did not want, she knew, was to have this three-million-dollar necklace in her personal possession one minute longer than necessary.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  OOUTSIDE, ABBY PAUSED in the recessed entryway to Seibert's Jewelry. Slanting rain hammered the sidewalk now. She struggled to keep the box snugged close to her body while she nervously wrestled the umbrella open.

  She reminded herself there was no need for nerves. No one out here on the street knew she was carrying a three-million-dollar necklace in the plastic bag hanging from her wrist. The bag had HOLLOWAY’S HARDWARE written across it and surely looked as if it held a box of nails or a bottle of drain cleaner, and no one was going to mug her for that. She couldn’t, in fact, recall anyone ever having been mugged on Sparrow Island.

  Yet in spite of that reassurance, every nerve in her body felt as if it were standing at attention, like porcupine quills. Except that these quills were jabbing inward, pricking her skin and raising goosebumps, making her mouth feel as if it were full of dry feathers.

  Darkness was coming early on this wintry, rainy day. Raindrops haloed the street lights, and headlights already blazed on passing vehicles. She eyed a pickup cruising by with suspicious slowness. Were the occupants sizing her up? They might not know about the three-million-dollar necklace, but they could think she’d just purchased something expensive in the jewelry store . . .

  Enough, she chided herself. She shook her head, half laughing, half annoyed with herself for these runaway thoughts. And earlier she’d been grumbling that Ida had too vivid an imagination!

  She was just about to step onto the sidewalk when she spotted a familiar figure up the street on the opposite side. It was Hugo, carrying his own conservative, dark umbrella. Great! She started to wave and call to him, eager to share what she’d just learned about the necklace, but then she stopped. Hugo was not alone, she realized as she spotted another person on the far side of his tall figure.

  Sharing the umbrella with Hugo was Dr. Dana Randolph. At barely five feet tall, dressed in dark slacks and high-heeled boots, the slender, blond woman looked more like a Seattle sophisticate than what she was—the responsible and competent head of the Sparrow Island Medical Center.

  Seeing the two of them together puzzled Abby. Back at the museum, Hugo had said he had an appointment later. Was Dr. Randolph the person he meant? Was he ill and not telling anyone? Was that why he’d seemed so preoccupied and distracted? But if that was the situation, wouldn't he have met Dr. Randolph at the clinic, not out here on a rain-swept street? More likely, Abby decided, he’d just happened to run into her and offered her the shelter of his umbrella.

  Yet their heads were bent together as if they were engrossed in an intense and private discussion, and neither of them paid any attention to a couple of passersby on the sidewalk. Abby pressed herself against the door to the jewelry store, umbrella angled in front of her, suddenly reluctant to have them know she’d spotted them together.

  If Hugo actually was ill and he’d been on the phone about a medical problem earlier, he obviously didn't want anyone to know about it. She didn't want to embarrass him or herself by intruding on a private discussion with his doctor.

  Abby waited until Hugo and Dr. Randolph were well down the street before stepping out to the sidewalk. At the same time, glancing back, she realized Gordon Siebert and his clerk Judee were watching her curiously from inside the store.

  They were no doubt wondering why she was acting so furtive and sneaky, she realized in embarrassment. She gave them a self-conscious wave and stepped out briskly, only to realize if she continued going in that direction to reach her car, she might well run into Hugo and the doctor after all.

  Okay, she’d circle around the block to reach her car. She grasped the handle of the umbrella firmly and headed in the opposite direction, stepping over a stream of water already flowing along the curb at the corner.

  When she got halfway around the block, it occurred to her that since she had no idea where Hugo and Dr. Randolph were headed, she might still run into them. No problem, she told herself firmly. She’d just walk rather than drive over to the bank. It wouldn't take much longer, and she’d be sure to miss them.

  When the bank came into view Abby sighed with relief, only to draw up short before the door. There, hanging across the heavy glass door, a sign barred her way: CLOSED. She pushed up the sleeve of her jacket to peer at her watch. Five minutes after five o’clock. She tried the door to be certain. Locked.

  She peered hopefully through the heavy glass, thinking she might attract someone's attention. Lights still shone in some back rooms, but no one moved around out front, not even when she rapped lightly on the glass.

  Abby turned and looked both ways up and down the street as her nervous apprehension suddenly roared back. For a few minutes she’d concentrated so intently on dodging Hugo and Dr. Randolph that the contents of the plastic bag had slipped her mind. Now it felt as if the box were flashing a neon signal to anyone in the vicinity: Three-million-dollar necklace here! Just come and grab it!

  She headed for her car almost at a run, encumbered by the plastic bag, her purse, her umbrella and the driving rain. By the time she scooted safely behind the wheel of the car, she felt both foolish and exasperated with herself. If she hadn't been so concerned about dodging Hugo and Dr. Randolph, she’d have reached the bank in plenty of time. And if she hadn't let her imagination run wild about someone snatching the necklace, her palms and back of her blouse wouldn't be soaked with nervous perspiration now.

  She now had no choice but to take the necklace home with her for the night. But it had been in her desk for who knew how long, and no one had knocked her on the head to get it, so there was no reason to think someone would do so now. She further brightened with the thought that Henry Cobb might be at the house when she arrived and he’d take the necklace off her hands.

  Of much greater importance and concern than the necklace, she reminded herself, was Hugo.

  Could he really have some serious medical problem? she wondered as she drove toward home. She’d never known him to suffer more than a cold or touch of the flu. But his wife had died of malaria years ago, which she’d contracted when they were in Africa. Could Hugo have some little known tropical ailment that was only now surfacing many years later?

  She wished she could ask him, but she knew she had to respect his privacy and wait until, and if, he wanted to tell her. She felt an unexpected twinge of regret that he obviously didn't feel he could share something this important and personal with her.

  Well, that didn't mean she couldn't talk to the Lord about him, even if she didn't know details. She offered another heartfelt prayer for his healing if he was ill. “And if Dr. Randolph is treating him, I pray for wisdom and good judgment for her too,” she added. “Guide her in bringing him back to good health. Amen.”

  It was going to be a wild night weather-wise, Abby realized as she drove home. Wind buffeted the dark cedars lining the road, and once she had to dodge a fallen branch. Rain pummeled the windshield, and the occasional slap of a windblown, wet leaf on the glass made her flinch. Disappointment hit Abby when she saw that Henry's cruiser was not at the house as she pulled into the driveway. Once in the garage, she hesitated a moment before going on through the laundry room into the kitchen. Should she tell Mary about the necklace?

  Yes, of course. But later, not tonight. She didn't want Mary apprehensive and nervous with three million dollars in mysterious jewels there in the house with them.

  Inside, the fragrant scent of spicy spaghetti sauce greeted her, and a fire crackled in the fireplace in the living room. Mary was by the sliding glass doors leadi
ng to the back deck, leaning over in her wheelchair to dry Finnegan's paws with a towel. The dog's golden coat glistened with raindrops. He gave Abby a welcoming thump of his tail. He was Mary's service dog, helping her with activities she couldn't manage from her wheelchair, but he took a proprietary air toward Abby too.

  “Finnegan's been out in the rain?” Abby asked.

  “He wanted to go out for his playtime even though it was pouring rain,” Mary said. She was in the habit of letting Finnegan out to play for an hour or so every afternoon, time off from his workday to just be a dog and run and dig and play with his ball. The yard wasn't fenced, but he was well trained and never wandered far from the house even when outside alone. She tousled his head affectionately. “He really didn't want to come in even when it got dark.”

  Abby looked toward the sofa where Mary's cat Blossom was curled into a fluffy white cushion. She laughed. “I don't see Blossom having any such ideas about running around in the rain.”

  “Right. She looked out the window a couple of hours ago, gave one of those haughty flips of her tail and hasn't moved from that spot on the sofa since.”

  Blossom, bedraggled and hungry when Mary had first found her a few years ago, had wasted no time taking on airs that proclaimed her royal Persian heritage. It had come as a surprise to both Abby and Mary when Blossom and Finnegan turned out to like each other. The cat was especially fond of washing the dog's silky ears.

  “That sauce smells wonderful. Is Henry coming to dinner?” Abby asked hopefully as she shed her damp jacket.

  “No, he has a meeting tonight, so it's just you and me.”

  Ordinarily, Abby would have been delighted. She liked Henry Cobb and never felt his presence intrusive, but Mary had such an active social life with her knitting, crafting and reading groups, plus the flower arranging lessons she taught at Island Blooms, that sometimes it did seem as if she and Mary didn't have much sisterly time together. But tonight she’d really hoped the deputy sheriff would be coming over.