Part 6 (2/2)
”Lovely,” Grace said.
Mom heaved a sigh. ”Thank you for being kind, but I know it's awful. I couldn't seem to get it to come out right.”
Lottie put a hefty arm around my mom's shoulders. ”It is not awful, Maureen. It's simply more of a modern style than we're used to, like art psycho.”
”Deco,” I murmured.
”Art deco,” Lottie said quickly, her plump cheeks staining scarlet.
Psycho fit better.
”Thank you, Lottie,” Mom said dispiritedly, ”but I think I'd better go back to my studio and try again. Abigail, may I borrow the brooch this time?”
”Absolutely.” I darted around a pair of shoppers and through the curtain.
”Shall we try to sell this copy anyway?” I heard Grace ask her. ”I've just the spot for it, here, on the middle shelf of the armoire. See? It's visible from all parts of the room.”
I'd get Grace for that. ”Here you go, Mom.” I presented her with the brooch from my beret, which she set carefully inside the box.
She kissed me on the cheek. ”Thank you, honey. I'll bring it back in a few days. And remember your promise.”
”How could I forget?” I called as she hurried out.
”What promise is that, love?” Grace asked. ”Your engagement?”
”Yes. And did you really need to tell Mom you'd place her brooch on the middle shelf where it's visible from all parts of the room?”
”Your poor mum,” Grace said quietly. ”One has to feel sorry for her, poor dear. She never gets it quite right, does she?”
”At least she left smiling,” Lottie said, pa.s.sing behind us. ”Crisis averted.”
The bell jingled and my cousin Jillian sashayed in.
”Forget I said that,” Lottie muttered, and hurried into the workroom, while Grace slipped into the parlor to refill coffee mugs and teacups.
”Abs, there you are,” Jillian called breathlessly. ”I need help.”
She was twenty-six. She'd just figured that out?
Jillian Ophelia Knight-Osborne, my only female cousin, was the daughter of Aunt Corrine and Uncle Doug, and the wife of Claymore Osborne, brother to the swine who jilted me. Jillian was a year younger than me, which should have given me an advantage, except that she was a head taller, a hundred times richer, and a heck of a lot thinner. Which was to say that I was short, poor, and busty.
What we had in common were genes. We both had shoulder-length red hair-hers was a s.h.i.+mmering copper waterfall of silk; mine was more of a rust-colored twine-and freckles-hers a soft sprinkle of cocoa powder across her dainty nose; mine a shower of cinnamon. We also had the Irish stubbornness gene, which had resulted in many disagreements as kids and even more as adults. We functioned like sisters, basically, always battling for the seat by the window.
”I need a gift for a bridal shower,” she said, her gaze scanning the room for possibilities. ”But it has to be tres chic. Extraordinaire. Fantastique! And I need it today.”
Jillian also had the show-off gene, which, luckily, had missed me. Today she was wearing a short black cashmere swing coat, black fishnet tights, ankle-high black patent spike-heeled boots, and a black leather beret. Clearly, we'd both read the same article in Lucky saying berets were hot this season. . . . On second thought, Jillian would have seen it in Vogue.
”How about crystal candlesticks?” I asked, ringing up my customer's purchase.
”Are they Tiffany's?”
I thanked the customer, then turned to my hapless cousin. ”Tiffany's!”
She flapped her arms. ”The shower is tonight, Abby. Help me!”
”In case you hadn't noticed,” I hissed, ”we're a little busy at the moment.”
”You're right! I've never seen so many people in here. You should have someone throw a burning brick through your door more often.”
Another difference between us: the common sense gene.
While I took another payment, Jillian roamed the displays, examining, weighing, pondering, and rejecting everything. She ended up in the parlor sipping cups of espresso until we closed up shop at five o'clock.
”Okay,” she said, returning from the bathroom, ”what am I going to take to the shower?”
”How about a gift certificate?” I asked. ”The bride-to-be can pick out something for herself later or apply it toward wedding flowers, which would give me her wedding business.”
Jillian put her hands on my shoulders and bent at the knees so she could look me straight in the eye. ”Do you recall me using the word extraordinaire? Is there anything extraordinaire about a gift certificate?”
”Perhaps an original piece of art deco jewelry?” Grace suggested as she pa.s.sed by.
Jillian's eyes widened with enthusiasm-or maybe from too many espressos. ”Art deco?”
Grace had cleverly redeemed herself. I led Jillian to the armoire. Obviously she'd overlooked my mom's brooch during her initial search, because it was right-nowhere. ”Grace, did you move it?”
”No, dear. Look on the middle shelf.”
”I don't see it.”
Grace came over to join the hunt. Then Lottie came to help. Then the four of us did a search of the entire room, but the brooch was gone.
”Great,” Jillian said, slipping on her coat. ”I'll have to hope Claymore can come up with an idea.” With her cell phone to her ear, she gave me a quick wave and hurried out.
Grace flicked off the overhead lights, turned the sign to CLOSED, and locked the door. ”It's a puzzle about that brooch, isn't it? Could someone have nicked it, then?”
”What else could it be?” I asked as we headed for the workroom to clean up.
”Will you tell your mum, do you think?” Grace asked.
”She'd probably feel honored,” Lottie said, ”creating something worth stealing.”
As I swept tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs off the floor, I considered what to do. If I told Mom her piece was stolen, she might think it was worth duplicating. If I told her someone had purchased it, I'd have to make up a price that wouldn't hurt her feelings-and then pay her. Or maybe I just wouldn't say anything at all and hope she didn't notice it was missing.
My cell phone rang. Marco's name appeared on the screen and I answered it.
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