Joanna deposited her bag of new rubber stamps on the tiki bar at Tallulah’s Closet and hauled the sandwich board to the sidewalk to announce that the shop was open for business. The sun on the awning told her that the day was going to be a scorcher.
She didn’t know if her visit with Callie Rampton had been a success or not. Callie seemed to be holding out, but about what, Joanna couldn’t say.
A crowd of brunch-goers stood outside the hip cafe facing the shop, many of them holding mugs of coffee and checking their names against the list at the door. Why people would wait an hour on the sidewalk for breakfast was beyond Joanna, especially when a perfectly good diner with no line at all was a ten-minute walk away. Sure, the video poker machines beeped from the bar, and the crusty owner was likely to stop by your table and chat while your omelet cooled, but the pancakes were terrific. One benefit of the busy restaurant, though, was the number of customers it drew to Tallulah’s Closet.
She put the day’s first record on the turntable. Early Sonny and Cher. “The Beat Goes On” was just what she needed. Joanna smiled at a customer who’d wandered over from the cafe across the street with a greasy box of leftovers and set it on a stack of freshly laundered handkerchiefs.
“Finding everything you need?” Joanna lifted the box. “I’ll keep this for you at the counter.”
When the customer turned for the door, having bought nothing, and returning only when Joanna reminded her that her leftovers were still on the counter, Joanna picked up the phone. Task number one, see Callie Rampton. Check. Number two, call Foster Crisp.
When Joanna had seen him last, Crisp hadn’t yet retired from his position as a homicide detective with the Portland Police Bureau. Despite their sometimes-troubled relationship, Joanna liked to think Crisp had developed a begrudging respect for her. Maybe even a liking. She certainly liked and respected him—and feared him sometimes. He had a way of looking at her that made her sure he’d suss out every white lie. When he’d retired, Crisp had given her his cell phone number and suggested they keep in touch.
That was last spring. She hadn’t even looked at his number since then. She hadn’t needed to. Now Gene had been gone for two days, and they were sitting on a pasha’s ransom of diamonds and emeralds.
He picked up the call on the first ring.
“Detective Crisp?” Joanna realized she’d never called him by anything but his title. “It’s Joanna Hayworth.”
“No ‘detective’ anymore. How about plain old Foster?”
“Foster,” she said. It felt too familiar, but it was better than Mr. Crisp.
“I heard you were on the spot when Bradley Stroden was murdered.”
“Word gets out fast,” Joanna said. “Is the murder public yet?”
“I keep in touch with the department. Sounds like they’re making a public statement today. The press release might have already gone out. What can I do for you? It doesn’t have to do with the Stroden case, does it?”
“No. Not yet, anyway,” she amended. “Remember Paul’s uncle, Gene?” She knew he remembered. He’d made a point of mentioning Gene’s livelihood when he first ran into Paul at Tallulah’s Closet almost two years ago. His narrowed gaze at Paul had told her he knew something about Paul’s unwitting involvement in it, too.
After small talk about Joanna and Paul’s wedding and Crisp’s retirement, he brought the conversation around to Gene again. “On parole, isn’t he?”
Joanna hesitated. “You’re a private citizen now, right?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “Joanna, I have a responsibility to report anything you tell me about something illegal.”
“Oh.” The heat was rising. She clicked on the tiki bar’s counter fan.
“Of course, if it’s something you don’t know for sure is illegal, or, say, you had a theoretical question about someone you know, I might be able to weigh in on that.”
One hand fidgeted with the phone cord. “It’s like this. I know someone who used to be a thief, but isn’t anymore.”
“Are you sure about that?”
No comment, she thought. “Yes,” she said.
“But what?”
“But someone I know may have found a pair of valuable earrings in her house.”
“And the ex-thief was in the house, too?”
“Possibly.”
“The earrings might legally belong to the thief. There’s no law against owning earrings.”
Uncle Gene in emerald chandeliers? Unlikely. But she understood where this train of thought was headed. “Is there a registry for stolen jewelry?”
“No. Art and guns, yes. But jewelry? No.”
Crisp was no longer a policeman. She couldn’t trust a cop with information that might violate Gene’s parole. Although that would be one way of getting him out of the basement, she noted wryly. She was already in dangerous waters. Paul didn’t know she was having this conversation.
“I don’t suppose you have any way to track down stolen jewelry anymore?”
“No. But I’ve been…”
It wasn’t like Crisp to let his thoughts wander off without tying them up. “Been what?”
“Shoot. I’ve been bored. I still have a lot of good years left in me. My wife is ready to send me on a long cruise. By myself.”
“Strangely, I understand.” She’d been involved in a few crime cases, and they’d been enough to whet her appetite for the mental puzzles and surges of adrenaline.
“Paul’s ready to get rid of you?”
“No, not that. But I understand how you’d miss your work. It’s so interesting. Exciting, too. You never know what you’re going to find. It would be hard to give up the challenge.”
He made a noise that was a cross between a sigh and a groan. “I feel like a horse trained to work the fields, and now I’m back in the stable. I’m antsy.”
“Does that mean you’re thinking of going back to work? Or maybe buying a ranch?” Crisp had been raised in rural Eastern Oregon, and still sported cowboy boots and talked longingly of Ponderosa pines.
“No. Maybe someday, but not right now. No, I’m ramping up to hang out my shingle as a private investigator. The only thing is that I don’t have any clients. Unless that’s what you’re calling about.”
Joanna held up her hand to the fan’s breeze. Ignoring her pounding heart, she asked, “How much would it cost to see if a particular item was stolen? If I were your client, that is?”
“Why don’t we start at the beginning, Joanna? Tell me about this item. You might need to send me a photo—or have someone help you with that.” He knew her limitations with technology.
She didn’t need a photograph for a precise description. “It’s a pair of diamond and emerald earrings, probably from the 1920s. Each earring dangles from a post in a fan shape. The body of the fan is figured in diamonds. Dangling from the bottom of the fan are teardrop-shaped emeralds. I’m not sure about total karats, but—”
“Platinum setting?”
“Yes.” She raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t need a database to tell me about those earrings. They’re stolen, all right.”
Joanna’s heart sank. “How can you be sure? You haven’t even seen them.”
“About two inches long?”
“Yes,” she said reluctantly.
“Definitely stolen. It was a huge case. You didn’t happen to find a matching necklace and brooch, did you?”
“Just earrings.” Although who knew what would turn up in a thorough search?
“You’re sure? The necklace was spectacular. Half a diamond mine must have been looted for it. The insurance settlement was stupendous.”
“Oh. I’m surprised I didn’t read about it.” Joanna barely heard the words she spoke. Stolen. Paul would be devastated.
“I’d be surprised if you did. They were boosted more than forty years ago.”