The Third Sin (11 page)

“Three o'clock this afternoon would be fine.” He paused for a long moment. “The diamond?” he asked. “It's in the safe where it's always kept.”

Panic gripped Blair. In the shock of Wade's death, she had forgotten the diamond. Now she remembered that both Irina and possibly Bella had the combination to the safe.

“Harold, tell him we'll check on it immediately,” she interrupted.

Harold nodded and repeated what she'd said into the phone. Then, apparently in response to something the attorney said, he added, “I haven't seen it lately because Bella doesn't want to wear it and Mother hasn't been going to many parties. But it must be there. Wade told us the auction house would send an armored van to pick it up today. Should I call them and stop that?”

Blair interrupted again, this time letting her anxiety ring out. “We are not making final decisions yet. After we've checked the will, we'll decide about the sale.”

Harold covered the mouthpiece and shouted at her, “For god's sake, Blair, shut up! I can't hear what he's saying.” He removed his hand and spoke into the phone. “Okay, thanks again. I'll see you at three. Right.”

He crashed the receiver back onto the cradle. “Good god, Blair, your behavior embarrassed me. The only saving grace is that the old guy has known me for years. He understands that I'm perfectly capable of taking care of this. I don't need your interference.”

Blair lowered her head to hide her face. “I'm sorry, darling. I spoke out of turn. It's because I'm tired and upset. I know you can handle everything. You always have.” She gave him a quick look to see if he had forgiven her, and then continued, “You have to admit that the lawyer raised a good point. I can't remember the last time I saw the Braganza. Let's check on it.”

Harold said brusquely, “It's in the safe, in the den. Where else would it be?”

Anxiety tightened Blair's chest. “Do you remember when you last saw it?”

After a pause, her husband said, “I can't remember, but I know it's there.” He looked straight into her eyes. “Only Wade, Irina, and I know the combination.”

You're wrong, Blair thought, I know it, too. You've forgotten that you gave it to me years ago, when Douglas first got sick and you went to that conference in Seattle. And if I have it, I bet Bella has it too.

She shuddered. Bella had slept in the den last night. And she'd sobered up; she could easily have opened the safe.

“Harold,” Blair said, “finish your coffee and let's check the safe.” He stared at her for a moment, then took a long, obviously reluctant drink of coffee. He slowly and deliberately folded his newspaper and set it on the table, then stood up, carried his mug to the sink, and turned on the water to rinse it out.

Blair waited patiently. She'd put up with Harold's passive aggressiveness for years and knew any attempt to speed him up would only make him stubbornly slower. She told herself to be compassionate. It was clear that Harold had not fully accepted Wade's death—not a surprise, since less than four hours had passed since his brother's body had been carried out of the apartment.

Finally, Harold said, “Let's go,” and Blair walked with him to the den.

*   *   *

Bella had slept on the pull-out sofa in the den, and when she'd gotten up, she'd made no effort to straighten the room. The sheets were a crumpled mass on the bed and the pillow was streaked with black mascara. Blair pulled the sheets and pillows onto the floor and folded the bed back into the sofa.

Harold went to the ornately framed Bavarian landscape painting which hid the safe. As he maneuvered it off the hook, the picture slipped through his fingers and fell heavily to the carpet.

“Be careful. That's one of your mother's favorite paintings.” Blair stooped and picked up the picture, then carefully set it down, leaning it against the sofa with the back of the canvas facing into the room.

Harold had paused to study the face of the safe. He asked Blair for a tissue and wiped the dial. The tissue came away clean and Blair saw that there was no dust on the front of the safe. Trying to control the fear in her voice, she said, “Someone opened it recently.”

She could hear the stress in her husband's voice as he replied, “Wade probably opened it—he had to show the diamond to the executives at the auction house. Or maybe Irina wanted a piece of jewelry for some reason.”

Irina, Blair thought, grasping at anything that might relieve her dread. Irina kept some of her fine jewelry in the safe.

Harold breathed heavily as he slowly punched in the combination. His hand shook; Blair was tempted to tell him to let her take over. Finally he swung open the door. The safe was full of jewelry cases of various sizes. A folding file of documents sat atop the heap. Harold carefully began removing things from the safe and handed them to Blair, who set them down on the coffee table. First the folding file, then the small boxes that contained Irina's jewelry, and finally, the large, ornate, red velvet box stamped with the Brazilian royal crest in gold. The Braganza.

“Ha, you see, it's here, just as I said.” Harold couldn't contain his glee as he turned to face his wife.

Blair reached for the box. “Let me see it,” she said, unfastening the clasp and lifting the lid.

The box was empty; its red velvet peaks and valleys seemed to be screaming at the loss of their usual contents.

“Mother must have it,” Harold said after a long silence. “Although I can't understand why she would keep it in her room.”

Blair couldn't control her anger. “It's not hard for me to explain. Irina is desperate to keep the diamond. She's stolen it.”

“Don't be crazy,” Harold said. “What could she do with it if she took it? She couldn't sell it—it's too recognizable. Besides,” he said, glowering at Blair, “all Irina ever wanted was to wear it. The stone gave her an identity. Something she never got from her husband or her father.”

“An identity? That's a load of crap. She's a rich woman who has been given everything she wanted.”

“For Christ's sake, why are you so hard on her? She had a rotten childhood. A German mother who never adjusted to this country and a father who was too busy chasing other women to pay her any attention.”

“So what,” Blair stated flatly. “That's everyone's story. Whose parents didn't have problems?”

Harold exploded. “You've never understood how important her jewelry is to her! I know it's irrational, and it's hard for you to understand. But try.

“Irina's mother came from a family of jewelers who worked for the tsars. Growing up in war-torn Germany, glittering Moscow, fabulous jewelry, and the work her family did for the tsars was all Irina heard about and all she fantasized about. Think about what those stories must have meant to her—try to put yourself in her place for a moment.”

Blair heard real fury in Harold's voice and answered quietly, trying to appease him. “I understand. It must have been awful to have such an unhappy mother. Irina went through hell.”

Harold visibly relaxed and Blair went to him and kissed him on the cheek. He responded by putting his arm around her waist. “Thank you,” he said softly, and Blair knew the fight was over.

Together, Harold and Blair repacked the safe, leaving the box for the Braganza on the table. Harold closed the safe door and spun the dial. He picked up the jewelry case. “I'll go and see her and get the diamond back.”

“I'll come with you,” Blair said.

He turned to face her and said firmly, “No, she's my mother. I'll handle her.”

Okay, Blair thought, I'll stay out of it—for now.

 

Chapter
14

F
RIDAY, 8:45 A.M.

Wade Bruckheimer's apartment

Jorge was cold with fear as he went through the door that connected his apartment to Wade's. No, not Wade's any longer, he thought, trying to calm himself. His emotions had been out of control since his confrontation with Wade the night before. When the younger man had refused to sell him the Braganza, Jorge had been almost overcome with rage.

Then there had been the shocking sight of the black body bag being wheeled to the elevator and out into the darkness of the early morning.

Now Jorge had to be strong enough to take back the antiques that had been in the Dias family for generations. His father had been foolish to let Esperanza have them, but how could he have known she would die so soon and leave so much unsettled?

And the Braganza, that rare, exquisite diamond. He would have that too. Jorge took a few tentative steps into the living room, then stopped to listen. The silence encouraged him. He felt no guilt for what he was about to do, but he didn't want to face Bella. That would come later.

He had been in this apartment countless times and always felt free to come and go as he wished. After all, the Dias family had paid for the apartment, and as a resentful Elenora had reminded Jorge, their family had supported Wade all his life.

“So,” she had said with typical assurance, “the apartment and everything in it belongs to us.”

Now, standing in an apartment that seemed different, unknown, and unwelcoming, Jorge knew that his nephew's death had altered everything. Bella was Wade's wife, and despite a prenuptial agreement, she would claim all of his estate. And, Jorge knew, her family had connections in Brazil. They would stand behind her, happy to snatch a victory over the Dias “aristocrats.”

Irina would be an even fiercer adversary. Wade's death was the opening she needed to raise the question of who owned the heirloom collection of silver and gold—and the diamond.

As Douglas's second wife, Irina insisted the diamond belonged to her, not Wade, and she and Douglas had fought endlessly about the stone, even while Douglas was dying. In his last days, Irina pressed him hard on the question of ownership of Esperanza's jewelry, but Douglas seemed to take pleasure in denying her the satisfaction of an answer.

“My will,” was his weak but terse reply. When he was gone and the will was read, to Irina's fury, a codicil explained that the diamond and antiques were not part of her husband's estate. That they had belonged to Wade since his mother's death.

Jorge drew from his jacket pocket a carefully preserved birth announcement from Esperanza. On the back, she had written a private note, telling Jorge how happy she was to have brought Wade into the family and that her son would be brought up to respect the family traditions. She'd added that the family heirlooms she'd brought to her marriage would someday belong to her son, to ensure his connection with the Diases. Esperanza and Douglas had both signed the note and Douglas had added, in his own hand, the words, “I agree.”

Even back then, Jorge had not completely trusted the Bruckheimers, so he had sealed the note away in Mylar and preserved it against the day when it might be needed. He looked around the room and his gaze settled on the portrait of Esperanza. At the sight of his sister's lovely face, Jorge felt his strength return.

“For you, my beautiful sister. I do it for you. Our family will reclaim our treasures and I will take your portrait home to Brazil,” he murmured.

He'd decided to begin by inventorying the most valuable pieces, which were kept in a nineteenth-century Portuguese sideboard in the dining room. Many times when Jorge and his wife had visited Wade, Elenora had asked Wade to unlock the cabinet for her. Jorge had often watched as she had taken obvious, greedy pleasure in touching the antiques, caressing each piece and muttering “beautiful” and “lovely” half under her breath, clearly mesmerized by their workmanship.

The night before, when Wade had refused to give up the diamond, Jorge had called Elenora. She had been angry but not surprised. “Give him some time to think it over,” she had counseled him. “Perhaps you rushed him. Try again tomorrow.”

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

But now Wade was dead and everything was in doubt. Jorge had called Elenora again this morning, to tell her the sad news. He had heard both grief and fear in her voice when she said, “Jorge, you didn't do anything foolish, did you?”

He spoke as firmly as possible. “I did nothing foolish. What makes you ask?”

“How many times have you said you wished him dead? Have you ever said that in front of anyone?” she asked.

“No, Elenora, of course not. I said that only to you, and you know I never seriously meant it.”

“Jorge, the police will be investigating. They will discover that you bring him those strong sleeping pills. He could have taken an overdose.”

“Elenora, stop talking nonsense.”

She hesitated a moment before continuing. “Jorge, I'm worried. They could accuse you. I'm getting on the next plane.”

“No. No, Elenora. I'm sure there is no need for you to come. I will be leaving as soon as I've done what needs to be done.”

“I insist, Jorge, so say nothing more. I need to be there to take care of you and to see that we get our heirlooms back. Until I get there, you must make the inventory—and keep your eye on Bella. She knows you opposed her marriage and she will get great satisfaction if she can take those pieces from us.”

Elenora believed that Jorge's inventory, and especially any photos he could take, would discourage Bella from removing anything. It was necessary to make an inventory since there was no official list of the contents of Esperanza's dowry, and without a list, it would be easy for Bella to hide choice pieces and claim she didn't know where they were. During the phone call, Jorge had promised Elenora he would have the inventory finished before she arrived. Now, standing in the dining room, he found himself hoping that nothing had already been removed.

Jorge slipped the blade of his pocketknife between the doors of the carved Portuguese sideboard and started to pry at the lock. He didn't want to force it too hard. Not only would marks be noticed, but the sideboard was an antique, deserving of respect. Remembering that it was one of the pieces Esperanza had brought from Brazil, Jorge pulled out his cell phone and took a picture of the sideboard before returning to his task.