Now that the cavalry has arrived, I can’t find the oomph to move, much less stand up. I lay flat on the ground; I don’t register more than a general buzz of action and sound around me for seconds, minutes. And then strong, gentle hands grasp my shoulders.
“Are you okay?” Max asks.
“I think all the parts are still attached.”
“Want to stand?”
I give him a crooked smile. “How about we try sitting first?”
He holds my hand, and I use his strength to haul myself up to a sitting position. “Who called the cops?”
“Julie did as soon as she got to the day care center. She realized someone had lured her away on purpose.”
“Is Chief—”
“While you were kissing the floor there, he hauled Tiffany away.”
“I wasn’t kissing the floor. I was just too wiped out to move. You try having a killer hold a gun to your head. You might just lose all your macho football jockiness too.”
He backs up, hands in a defensive position. “Hey! I’m on your side.”
“All right, all right, all right,” I mutter as I stand up. “Where’s Aunt Weeby?”
“With Agent Stewart, giving him her side of the story.”
My eyes goggle. “Poor guy! He doesn’t know what he’s in for.”
“He can handle it, I’m sure. But you’re in for a date with him too.”
“Don’t remind me.” My knees don’t remember how to do their thing, and it’s all I can do to stay upright. “Do I really have to go through a grilling right now?”
“Maybe we can talk them into letting you get checked out at the hospital first—”
“Hold it right there, Max Matthews! I’m not going back. I want to go home. Let me at Agent Stewart.”
I wobble out of the vault, nod hello to a couple of Chief Clark’s officers, one of whom has the gun in a ziplock bag, and then I stumble toward the door. There, in Julie’s usual seat, is my aunt, retelling the tale in her own unique—wacky— way.
“Miss Adams,” the shadow . . . er . . . Agent Stewart says. “I’m done with your aunt. I have a few questions for you—”
“Could you give me a couple of hours? I’m shaky and I’d like a shower and a nap. There’s nothing like a gun at your head for making you . . . well, sweat.”
Aunt Weeby groans. “Andrea! A woman never sweats, sugarplum. We only—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know all about dewing, and all that. But I can tell you, I was sweating. If it’s all right, I’d rather go home. I can promise you’ll get better answers from me after I quit shaking.”
We agree, I head home, thanks to Max and his SUV, and I collapse on my bed. In the safety of my room I recognize a few things. Tiffany is rotten. My gut had told me that from the start. The most I can say for her is that I hope and pray someone can lead her to Christ.
I also realize that all of Roger’s wheeling and dealing skates the edge of illegal. Although I hadn’t participated in any of it, I’d excused it for a long time as part of “doing business” in New York’s cutthroat diamond district.
“Lord?” I whisper. “I’m sorry. I guess when I told you I wanted your will for real, it really means looking at things your way and not the way everyone else does. I have to ask your forgiveness for my . . . oh, I guess it was willing blindness, and even some fudging. It’s hard to look at the world your way, but I’d rather be with you than without you.”
From down the hall, I catch the clump-clump of Aunt Weeby’s cast. “Oh, and thanks for watching out for Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona. Me too, but they didn’t have anything to do with this mess, and still they got caught up in it. Thanks, okay?”
And then I sleep.
An hour later, Agent Stewart shows up and asks his millions of questions. By the time he’s done, I need another nap. But I don’t get the chance to take it. A short time after he leaves, I have more visitors.
To my surprise, the secret service guy from Myanmar, the uniformed and medaled one from the airport, an official from the Thai embassy, and tiny, sweet Mrs. Pak stop by. She’d wanted to meet me, so the three officials had brought her to Aunt Weeby’s house earlier in the day. Aunt Weeby, dying to get out, had them drive to the studio. And that’s how she wound up in the vault.
When they leave, Aunt Weeby takes off to her date with the church’s choir director. Poor man. He doesn’t know what’s about to hit his well-planned program for this next Thanksgiving.
About a half hour later, Max walks in.
“Hi,” I say as I pull the tray full of bird-poop-covered newspaper out of the bottom of Rio’s cage. Oh! Didn’t I mention the glamour in parrot ownership? Sure. It has to do with cracked bird seed and dropping-littered cage bottoms that must be cleaned day after day. Yesterday was Aunt Weeby’s turn; today is mine.
“I hear you’re an international superstar,” Max says, a wicked grin on his face. You can be sure he’s not about to offer to help.
“I don’t think so.”
“Last I heard, you had dignitaries from two Southeast Asian countries here to see you.”
I shrug, head for the utility room, and start to scrub the thick, heavy-textured plastic tray. “They brought Mrs. Pak. She wanted to meet me. At least I was able to tell her how sorry I am about her husband’s death.”
“Did they say why he brought the stones to you?”
“The cutter in Thailand who wound up with the rubies was killed for the stones, but before he died, he’d told Mr. Pak about them. Mr. Pak wanted them returned to the government of Myanmar, but he was afraid. He thought his connections to the cutter might tie him to the thieves. He did visit the mines at least four or five times a year, and he thought that would instantly make the government doubt his story.”
“So then, why you?”
I roll my eyes. “According to Tiffany, because I’m too stupid to plan and get away with a heist like this.”
He laughs.
I smack the tray against the side of the sink. “Hey! Some sympathy would be welcome, buddy. I’ve been traumatized here.”
His laughs slow down to chuckles. “What about Mrs. Pak? Did she have anything interesting to say?”
“That Roger had lusted after those rubies ever since Mr. Pak mentioned the theft. He wanted the stones because they’re incredible. Tiffany heard about them, and she wanted the millions they’d bring. Roger didn’t care about the legalities, but he didn’t hurt Mr. Pak either. Tiffany, on the other hand, threatened Mr. Pak. She even threatened his family, but he refused to hand over the stones. He felt they should go back to the government, then be sold on the open market to the highest bidder.”
Max doesn’t say anything for a while, but instead stares at me. I get itchy and squirmy under his scrutiny. “What? Do I have spinach on my teeth?”
“No. I’m just thinking what a compliment Mr. Pak paid you. He trusted you, your integrity. He knew you’d do the right thing.”
“But I didn’t. I never even found the stones.” I turn to yank a wide ribbon of paper towels from the wall-hung roll, and the tray teeters on the edge of the sink. “Ooops!”
Max dives after the drippy tray. “Look out!”
The tray hits the floor. A thin sliver of plastic slides out the left side. On the sliver of plastic is a wide swathe of duct tape.
I stare.
Max sucks in a breath.
My knees begin to shake, and I wind up on my butt right by the tray.
Mr. Magnificent joins me, oblivious to the puddle of water in which he sits.
“Do you think—”
“Could that be—”
Our gazes meet. We both reach out, but then he draws back. “Go ahead,” he says. “You’ve earned it.”
With shaking fingers, I ease a corner of sticky silver adhesive from the white plastic and tamp down my excitement when I feel the lumps below the tape.
Millimeter by millimeter, I work the glue away, and then . . .