The Diamond Secret. Ruth Wind

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      My grandmother lived on the end of her building. Her windows were polished, as were all the windows on the street, and red tulips had pushed their way up into the spring air. She’d no doubt been waiting for me—sitting with her next-door neighbor, Anna, and a blue budgie who sang to her from his perch—because she flung open the door. “Ma cher!” the elder Sylvie cried. “I am so happy to see you!”

      I dashed up the narrow sidewalk to hug her. Tiny as a sparrow, her white hair now cut neatly around her sharply angled face, she was still a beauty at seventy-eight. She had nary a wrinkle. “Come in, ma poulette!” she cried. “Have you had your tea?”

      “No, of course not! Not if I had a chance to have your coffee and some cake.”

      Over my shoulder, my grandmother glared. I turned to see a battered Mini crawling down the street. “Go on with you!” she cried, sounding more Scottish than French. “Nosy rats. They’ve been nosing around all day.”

      Paparazzi again. I was tempted to flip them off, but it would only give them what they were after—something to print in their trashy little journals. My hugging an old woman wouldn’t do much for their circulation.

      In the vestibule, she took my coat and led me into the tiny sitting room, where her best friend Anna waited. Slim and thoughtful, Anna had always been one of my favorites. She told wonderful stories of her girlhood and the Scotland that existed before the war, and she did not suffer fools lightly.

      “Hello, Sylvie,” she said. “We’ve just seen your father on television.”

      “Really.” I settled in the place they made for me before the fire, feeling as pampered as a beloved princess. “Tell me all about it.”

      In the street outside the window, the beat-up Mini rolled by again. Something about the man behind the wheel was seedier or grimmer or something than the average—even average tabloid—photographer. I narrowed my eyes and stood up to watch him go by. He was very interested in my car.

      “What is it, dear?” Grandmother asked.

      I shook my head, unwilling to worry them. “Just that photographer again.”

      But I wondered.

      Chapter 3

      KATERINA’S BLOOD, diamond with ruby inclusion; 83 karats; first recorded ownership: 1253, Romania. Supposedly cursed by a priest, to bring death to anyone who wishes to use it for greed.

      —Legends and Lore of Famous Stones

      I spent a solid 90 minutes with the two older women, feeling the tensions of work, life, everything just drain away. The coffee was bland, the cakes a little dry, but it was the company I wanted. After a while, however, the warmth and comfort of the sitting room made me feel sleepier and sleepier. I kissed them both and headed off.

      I’d reserved a room in a hotel close to the top of the town. It turned out to be an agreeable old house, with heavy paneling on the walls and pressed curtains at the windows of the foyer. The smell of meat and onions hung in the air from the restaurant/pub on the ground floor as I checked in. I’d have a nice shower then find something sustaining, which is never hard to find in Scotland. Honestly, with all the bakeries with their fluffy white breads and delicate cakes, with the brideys and bacon rolls, you’d think the whole country would be rolling around like little butterballs, but they’re not. It’s a sturdy population, plain-faced and direct, with dogs and people taking their exercise outside all the time.

      In my plain, pleasing room, I tipped the busboy, a youth of maybe seventeen with a shaved head and a thick earring in his left lobe, and threw my suitcase on the bed. I kicked off my shoes, and started unbuttoning my blouse as I headed for the bathroom to start the shower. Another reason to have a room in a hotel. Showers have never particularly caught on in homes in Britain. It’s better than it was when I was a child, but still a long way from the copious amounts of high pressure water you get in America.

      As I shed my blouse, jet lag started kicking in again, thick along the back of my neck, weighting my eyelids, making my shoulders ache. I glanced at the clock: 6:17. To get on schedule, I would have to stay up until at least 9:30.

      At the moment, it seemed impossible.

      Steam curled out of the bathroom. I stripped as I went, leaving a trail from bed to bathroom. Sheer white blouse, bra, red leather skirt—I have a penchant for leather—panties. My skin felt sweaty and sticky, and the water was heaven. The toiletries were high-end, smelling of lavender. For one second, as the spray massaged my back, I thought with some pleasure of the possibility of my Continental, with his long, clean hands. Hands on my tired neck would be very nice indeed. He’d seemed charming enough, and it wouldn’t be so bad to have a holiday affair, especially given the anniversary of my divorce.

      But I didn’t want to mix family into it. I’d chosen the Drover pub because no one I knew was likely to be there. It’s not always possible, but I keep family and love life, as well as business and love life, strictly separated.

      Business is obvious. It’s too hard to work with someone you’ve slept with and dumped or been dumped by.

      And the trouble with families is that they always hope you’re going to settle down. That’s not on my agenda. Tried marriage for three years, and really, not married is better. Men are too unreliable. I should have learned that from my father’s example, but it took a bad marriage—with a man so much like my father they might have been clones; that is, handsome, charming, and completely incapable of fidelity—to drive the truth all the way home.

      So I stood alone under the hot shower, washing the breath of hundreds of other people from my long hair, scrubbing the layers of grime from my face.

      Feeling better, I wrapped one towel around my head and another around my body. Stepping over the clothes on the floor, I unzipped my black carry-on to get out some lotion and deodorant, mentally trying to choose between jeans and a skirt to wear downstairs.

      It took ten full seconds to sink in: this was not my bag.

      It was an exact replica, which isn’t so weird—how many black, wheeled carry-on models are there, after all?—but in the netted pocket where I keep my underwear, there were boxer shorts. Instead of my prized red leather pants, there was a stack of neatly folded T-shirts.

      “Damn!”

      I put my hand on the straps, lifted the edge of a blue shirt as if it were a false front, a little practical joke, and just below it, I’d find my own things. How could this have happened? I’d had it with me all the way from California!

      But obviously, that wasn’t true, or I wouldn’t be looking at some man’s things instead of my own.

      Think. Where could it have been mixed up? It could have happened when I pulled the bag out of the overhead bin. Not likely. I wedged it next to the right-hand wall, and took it down from the same spot.

      Where else then? At security. I suppose I could have grabbed the wrong bag off the belt.

      Except my shoes were in the bin right next to it.

      Which left the van I used to get to the airport. I thought back to the other passengers, wondering which one might be opening my bag with the same sinking feeling I had right now.

      There СКАЧАТЬ