Chapter 3

 

Penelope straightened her collar with a crisp tug, concealing all but the centermost of the diamond bows with its stunning emerald center. No more museum displays for the historic piece. She was taking it straight to her safe deposit box, right this minute. Quickly checking the doors, picking up her purse and phone, she walked through her fully equipped chef-worthy kitchen and out the connecting door to the garage.

Her Mercedes sat alone in one of the three slots in the cavernous room, which was cleaner and more organized than most people’s houses. Occasionally, Benton’s SUV stayed a night in the bay next to her trim convertible. She smiled. Twenty years ago, after Joseph Fitzpatrick’s heart attack left her a widow, she and Benton struck up a friendship, eventually became lovers, and had settled in recent years back into companionship of the steady, comforting sort. They shared confidences and meals, plus she had to admit they made a stunning couple at Phoenix’s variety of society events and charity fundraisers. He, a good four inches taller than she, sported still-thick silver hair. There was a time—she flushed at the memory—when not a single boy in school wanted to date the girl who was nearly six feet tall. Time, and a better selection of dates, had eased her into the present where she was comfortable in her skin.

The garage door glided upward and she started the little car, the favorite of all she’d ever owned. Down the winding drive, through the stone portal at the end, turning right at the bottom of the hill, Penelope negotiated her way through traffic and steered into the parking lot at Desert Trust Bank. She glanced affectionately at her car as she clicked the remote lock. It would be fun to put the top down on the way home.

Inside the bank she scanned the lobby. While several of the tellers could help her, Penelope preferred to deal directly with Sandy Werner, the branch manager who’d been with Desert Trust since Pen opened her accounts there. Sure enough, in the glass-enclosed corner office, she spotted Sandy at her desk talking on the phone. A moment later, the manager hung up the receiver and gave a wave of recognition. The bright smile, friendly blue eyes and neatly coiffed blonde hair were a few of the things Pen liked about the slightly plump woman in her tidy sapphire business suit.

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick, how nice to see you today,” Sandy said, meeting Penelope at her office door. “How are you?”

“I’m especially well. It’s been a wonderful day.”

Sandy started to lead the way into her office but the older woman stopped, explaining that she needed to get into her safe deposit box. The manager pulled a small ring of keys from her pocket and led the way toward the vault. Pen signed the log and produced her own key, standing by while Sandy inserted them both and opened the door concealing the metal box behind it.

“Let me just get you settled into one of the private rooms,” she said over her shoulder as she opened a door and flipped a light switch.

She set the metal box on the built-in desk and turned to face Pen again.

“Let me know when you’re finished.” Her glance went to Penelope’s throat. “Oh, I love your necklace. The style looks Russian.”

“You have a very good eye. That’s where it was made.” She reached up and unhooked the clasp behind her neck.

“Well, I’ve always loved jewelry of every type,” Sandy said, “but I’ve recently been studying a book on the Russian crown jewels. My gosh, they spared no expense in those days, did they?”

Pen chuckled. “That’s true. My grandfather made this one. It was to be for the tsar but, unfortunately, the royal family was deposed only days before he planned to deliver it.”

Sandy’s face went a shade lighter than her natural ivory, her expression shocked. “Oh my gosh.”

“Of course, I only know this story as family lore. My father was an infant and the family escaped within moments of grandfather’s shop and home being raided and burned. Apparently they grabbed everything they could and ran for the hills, so to speak. Although a few wars took their toll, they escaped to England where my father grew up and met my mother. I was actually born in London.”

“I wondered. You still have a slight trace of an accent. So you’ve been in America a long time?”

“Oh, yes. This country has always been home to me.”

Sandy’s eyes went to the necklace, which Penelope had removed.

“May I look closely?”

“Of course.” Penelope placed the historic piece in the banker’s hands. “Grandfather made my ring too. For my grandmother. Three generations of us have worn it.”

Sandy turned her attention to the ring on Penelope’s left hand. Diamonds formed the loops of a bow, very similar to the design on the necklace.

“Are they a set?”

“That’s what I was told. Father told me there was a third piece, a crown made for the tsarina, which is styled very much like the necklace. I have a photograph of her wearing it. Apparently, she loved it so much that she commissioned the necklace. Had things—history—gone differently, she would have also owned the ring and they say grandfather had designs drawn and ready to make a matching bracelet.”

Sandy touched the ring, staring at the setting with its perfectly proportioned stones and the emerald in the center of the bow knot. Penelope opened her safe deposit box and pulled out an envelope, from which she drew a small sheaf of photographs. A sepia-toned one did, indeed, show the famous tsarina wearing a crown of diamonds formed into the shapes of ribbon-tied bows encircling her head.

“It’s fantastic,” Sandy said, handing back the necklace. At the last second she paused. “May I just take one more look?”

She adjusted her glasses and ran a fingernail over the clasp. “Did you have this replaced at some point?” she murmured.

Penelope shook her head. “No, it’s mostly been either in storage or on display with the royal jewels collection. No one has ever worked on it.”

Sandy took Pen’s hand and held the ring finger closely to the desk lamp, then did the same with the necklace. She handed it back to its owner.

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick, I don’t quite know how to tell you this. These two pieces weren’t made by the same jeweler. I really believe the necklace is a fake.”

“My dear, how would you know that?” Pen’s voice sounded cool but her heart was pounding and she could hear the pulse rushing in her ears.

“Well, I mentioned that I’ve always loved jewelry ... I’ve taken classes and made a few pieces myself. Nothing at all like this, of course,” she said, apology brimming in her voice. “It’s just that in studying various artisan’s techniques and skills, we practiced identifying the work of various masters. I’m no professional—and I certainly suggest you see one—but even to my eye I seriously doubt these pieces were made by the same person. The ring has the patina of wear, of course, which the necklace does not, plus there are other little differences such as the way the prongs were constructed and the stones mounted. If you know the ring is genuine, then the necklace came from someone else.”

The robbery. The stolen item’s recovery. Pen felt her legs start to give way. She pulled out the chair at the desk and quickly lowered herself to it, clutching the heirloom necklace until her hands ached.