Diamonds Aren't Forever Read online

  Diamonds Aren’t Forever

  By Connie Shelton

  Diamonds Aren’t Forever

  Published by Secret Staircase Books, an imprint of

  Columbine Publishing Group

  PO Box 416, Angel Fire, NM 87710

  Copyright © 2017 Connie Shelton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure the accuracy and completeness of information contained in this book we assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistency herein. Any slights of people, places or organizations are unintentional.

  Book layout and design by Secret Staircase Books

  Cover image © Tunaxu

  Cat silhouette © Jara3000

  First trade paperback edition: August, 2017

  First e-book edition: August, 2017

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Shelton, Connie

  Diamonds Aren’t Forever / by Connie Shelton.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1945422317 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1945422324 (e-book)

  1. Heist Ladies (Fictitious characters)—Fiction. 2. Arizona—Fiction. 3. Jewel robbery—Fiction. 4. International jewel theft—Fiction. 5. Women sleuths—Fiction. 6. Con men—Fiction. 7. Mystery caper—Fiction. I. Title

  Heist Ladies Mystery Series : Book 1.

  Shelton, Connie, Heist Ladies mysteries.

  BISAC : FICTION / Mystery & Detective.

  813/.54

  * * *

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  “… a good bet…” –Booklist

  “Shelton again has done a superb job … in her colorful, vivid description….Readers can only hope the likable characters, fast-paced plots and local color will continue in another installment.” –Albuquerque Journal

  “…a delightfully complex mystery.” –Romantic Times (4 stars)

  “Shelton can only expand her fan base with this solid effort.” –Publishers Weekly

  Meet Connie Shelton and find out about all of her titles at www.connieshelton.com

  Browse Connie’s other Smashwords titles at

  https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/conniesheltonmysteries

  Chapter 1

  More than fifty carats of diamonds, twenty-eight of emeralds—the stones sparkled with a brilliance Penelope Fitzpatrick had forgotten. She held the necklace with both hands, once again taken with its beauty. Strands of platinum formed a winding ribbon studded with diamonds, the ribbon looping into five simple bows with an oval-cut emerald at the knot of each. When worn, two of the bows touched collarbones, while the other three tracked enticingly downward toward cleavage. Before Penelope, her mother had occasionally worn the necklace—the masterpiece design flattered any woman who put it on.

  “Safe and sound,” said the private investigator.

  “Yes.” She finally raised her eyes to look at the man. It was the first time she’d noticed touches of gray in his hair. “Thank you. I can’t tell you what this means to me.”

  “Just doing my job, ma’am.” Dick Stone accepted the check she handed him, beamed a most sincere smile and turned to leave.

  Penelope walked him to her carved front door and watched him cross the flagstone veranda to his late-model sedan. Even for Scottsdale, her spacious, mountainside home was a showpiece with its tiled roundabout and winding drive. She watched the car begin its descent to the valley below.

  Already, the April day had begun to warm into the eighties. How lucky she’d been to find this special property, perched on the side of Camelback Mountain, with sweeping views of the city and yet far above the fray of freeway traffic, noise and heat generated by the millions of people below in the Valley of the Sun. And how extremely lucky that the advance for her last three books had afforded her this luxury. She stepped back into the cool foyer with its travertine floors and the thick walls which protected her insular little world.

  She picked up the necklace and ran her fingers along the ribbon of diamonds, coming to the clasp and unclipping it with more difficulty than she remembered. The arthritis was minor, only an unwanted reminder of her age. And, really—wasn’t seventy the new forty? She refastened the clasp behind her neck, stepping in front of the mirror above her hall table.

  Spreading the collar of her green silk blouse, she made a couple of minor adjustments and smiled at her own reflection. An image of her father’s face came to her, stern and commanding. He had admonished her to take great care with the few remaining pieces from her grandfather, one of several jewelers to the last tsar of Russia. She sighed. How close she had come to losing this, the most elegant of all.

  Chapter 2

  Stopped at the traffic light on Shea Boulevard, Frank Morrell leaned toward his rearview mirror and checked his hair. The touches of gray had fooled the old lady. She had that Lauren Bacall sophistication—classy, surely into her seventies—but who knew how good her eyesight was? The main thing was, could he pull off the disguise with a younger person when he got to the airport?

  He decided he could—after all, the hair color had come from the supplier used by the best Hollywood makeup artists. If it stood up to high-def photography, it could surely pass inspection in what he hoped would be no more than a fifteen-minute transaction.

  The light changed. He pulled through the intersection and made a quick right turn into the parking lot of a busy tire store. From his inner jacket pocket he pulled the wallet containing his Richard Stone identity. A fake driver’s license and three credit cards—handy for the rental car and airline ticket. None of them would stand up to an actual credit check, but by the time anyone might go that far he would have discarded this persona completely.

  Dick Stone. He laughed aloud. Stone, Dick. Did the old lady not see the complete joke about a guy who called himself Stone Dick? Frank loved his work, especially his ability to be anyone he wanted and to have a sense of humor about it.

  Frank Morrell, Junior had learned from the best. Frank Senior had settled the family near Evansville, Indiana, where nearby communities of gypsies had brought the finest of con games and swindling techniques to America four generations earlier. The elder Morrell soaked up their knowledge like a sponge and by the time his young son could walk and talk, the two had worked up a series of routines such as the “My kid’s desperate—can he use your bathroom?” ploy. While Pop chatted up the lady of the house, Frankie’s instructions were to head straight for her bedroom and find her jewelry box. With his pockets full of swag, a flush of the toilet for authenticity, the two were out of the house and the lady never knew what hit her.

  Frankie had watched the sweetheart con play out so often that he’d seduced his first wealthy older woman when he was fourteen. The forty-something mark honestly believed her handsome suitor was twenty-five, and she practically glowed every time she showed him off at one of her snobby society functions. Even after her late husband’s insurance, retirement funds and real estate were completely gone, the poor delusional thing didn’t realize Frankie had planned and carried out the con well in advance. If she knew what had happened, she was probably too humiliated to admit it.

  The current mark, Penelope Fitzpatrick, was no rube. He’d tested the waters
, only to learn that Fitzpatrick had a gentleman friend already and the guy’s background was in law enforcement. A past district attorney or some such. Frank’s motto was never to associate with someone on the right side of the law unless he knew he had that person firmly in his pocket. He’d steered completely clear of Fitzpatrick’s friend.

  He took another look now in the rented Toyota’s rearview mirror. From a small black case on the passenger seat he pulled a bottle and small brush, adding a few more touches of gray to his dark brown hair. A stick of purplish makeup gave him a pretty realistic scar across his nose. It rarely failed—a prominent scar drew attention so well that the person would rarely remember enough other details about him to make a positive ID. As added insurance, he daubed a tiny stroke of black across the corner of one front tooth, making it appear chipped.

  If the police should get far enough along to ask questions about the man who’d cashed one very large check, neither the teller’s memory nor the bank security cameras would be able to pinpoint the real Frank Morrell. Not that his mugshot existed anywhere around here. Frankie always managed to vanish just ahead of the lawmen who sought to question him for his little infractions. He stuck with big cities, east coast and Midwest mostly, where the caseloads discouraged overworked police departments from pursuing the small stuff. This was his first trip to Phoenix and would be the last for a good, long time. For the big stuff—hell, he’d never even been suspected by the police, and the marks were always too embarrassed to admit how stupid they’d been.

  He stashed the makeup items, dropped the black case over into the backseat, gave himself a final glance in the mirror, and started the rented Corolla. While the air conditioning took effect, he admired the number of zeros on the check the old lady had just handed him. With a smile he folded the paper and put it into his wallet. Now, off to the bank.

  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 i
s 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.

  Chapter 4

  Pen carried the velveteen bag she’d removed from her bank box, experiencing an otherworldly feeling as she stepped through the open door Sandy Werner held for her.

  “Are you sure you’re all right to drive?” the banker asked.

  The older woman blinked, shaking off the feeling. “Yes, fine, thanks. The glass of water did help.”