27

 

I spent the next hour perusing the archives at the local newspaper. I was looking for anything sensational or incriminating about Danny-Boy. The Casket’s archives only went back a few years, so there was nothing about his university career. Archived photos focused on his recent athletic activities as a highland heavyweight contender. There were, of course, several articles about the Wee Claude incident, but they didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t already read on the Internet. And one small article, a four-liner tucked on the bottom of a page thirteen, commented on a court appearance for drunk driving charges. That was five years ago.

Nothing about his social life, though. Nothing to suggest a penchant for murder.

Disappointed, I gave up my search. It was time to meet Geoff and pick out his wedding ring. That, at least, lifted my spirits.

 

****

 

The buzzer sounded softly as Geoff and I entered Piteaux Jewelers. A waist-high display counter ran the length of one wall, a floor to ceiling showcase along the opposite. The carpeted space between was narrower than a grocer’s aisle. Piteaux’s was a family run business, and our Mr. Piteaux, busily setting maroon-velvet ring trays on the glass-topped counter, was a third generation jeweler. We were a little late for our appointment which, apparently, was not a problem. Or maybe he was just glad we’d finally made it after three cancellations.

“Your men’s wedding bands are quite varied these days.” Mr. Piteaux’s voice had an abrasive nasal tone, as if his sinuses and adenoids were perpetually inflamed. It always made me wince.

“You have your yellow gold band, your white gold, and your platinum. There’s your plain, your etched, and your embellished. If there’s a style you favor, but you’re not taken with the metal or gem stone, we can always customize.”

Geoff nodded, his gaze focused on the trays of rings.

“The wedding’s next May, am I right? That gives us lots of time.” Mr. Piteaux smiled at both of us although, as I said, Geoff was too busy staring at all the rings to notice. “Do you have any specific preferences or requirements? Are you wanting to match Gailynn’s ring? These days your young couples like their matched sets.”

“No,” said Geoff, unable to drag his gaze from the selection. “I need something plain and durable.”

Mr. Piteaux pushed his specs up his nose. “Excellent. An excellent start. Color preference?”

Geoff shook his head. “I have no idea. Should it be the same as Gai’s?”

“If that’s what you want. Why not try one on, see what you both think.” Mr. Piteaux picked out a gold band and, taking Geoff’s hand, slid the ring onto Geoff’s third finger.

It looked awful. Geoff’s skin was perpetually tanned—the result of his time in Africa—and in summer, he tanned even darker. The yellow gold made his hand look jaundiced.

Geoff glanced at me, and we both shook our heads. Not yellow gold.

“Excellent,” agreed Mr. Piteaux. “Let’s try the white.”

Better, but all the rings Geoff tried looked incongruent with his long-fingered hands.

That left the platinum rings which, frankly, were beyond our predetermined price range. Well, my predetermined price range, since I was the one paying for Geoff’s ring. But, considering my recent conversation with Josh, I wasn’t about to scrimp. I watched Geoff model the platinum rings, holding out his hand, this way and that for the three of us to see.

That’s what we were doing when the electronic buzzer hummed, and the shop door swept open.

Black Hair—whom I’d been intentionally trying not to think about—stepped in with a whoosh of hot air, took one look at me standing there with my mouth hanging open, and whooshed out.

I could’ve been wrong, of course. I mean, maybe he’d entered the jewelry store by mistake. Maybe, he wanted personal time with Mr. Piteaux and didn’t appreciate sharing the jeweler’s attention.

I stepped closer to Geoff, and safety. Neither he nor Mr. Piteaux seemed to find Black Hair’s hasty exit concerning. But they didn’t know what I knew about him.

“What do you think of this one?” Geoff asked.

He wore a piece of pipe on his finger. That’s what it looked like—a centimeter-wide slice of unpolished pipe. A piece of copper plumbing would have looked more elegant. And yet, it was perfect. The width, the simplicity, the overwhelming masculinity. I could tell by the way he stretched and fisted his fingers, that he liked it, too.

“I think that’s the one,” I said.

“Excellent,” said Mr. Piteaux.

Geoff slid the ring back onto the tray, and I fished in my purse for my credit card. For the first time in my life, I was about to bump my limit.