Thief of Time
A Free Serial by Michele Bardsley
Part One: The Red Diamond
“You’re a thief,” hissed the lovely and spiteful Miranda Jacobson Randolph Mayfield Andersen.
“Look who’s talking.” I lounged on the black Kubus sofa, which was a Josef Hoffman original. Miranda had regaled me with this see-how-rich-I-am fact as we waited for the police detective. “For Italian furniture,” I said, imitating Miranda’s tone of cultured boredom, “I prefer the bold style of Stefano Giovannoni over the geometric mode of Hoffman.”
She frowned at me, apparently unsure if I was offering insult or observation. Then again, Miranda’s specialty was gems, not furniture. She was as empty-headed as rusted tin can, but she could spot a Harry Winston piece at twenty paces. Needless to say, she was rather upset to discover her $3,000,000 necklace was no longer draped around her delicate throat.
So, I sat on the divan that looked like a bunch of black marshmallows had been glued together, in a living room that was big, sparse, and showcased the dazzling colors of … black and white. Bor-ring. Lackluster had always been Miranda’s style. Sure, she had the imagination of a mushroom, but she also had quick reflexes and nimble hands. I used to call her Monkey Fingers. And because I was quiet and flexible, she had called me Cat Woman.
Then, we had been friends.
Now, we were enemies.
Enemies engaged in fierce battle.
I looked to my left and sighed. Through the glass wall, I watched other guests at the cocktail party sip martinis, nibble canapés, and gossip about each other poolside. That’s where I’d been a couple minutes ago. Before I could indulge in another mini-quiche and my second flute of champagne, a uniformed officer had ushered me into the living room where Miranda waited.
For a few tense moments, icy silence reigned. Then, a short, pudgy man entered the room and penguin-stepped to us. He was balding, rumpled, and looked perpetually harassed. But his brown eyes were sharp, intelligent. A hawk lurked in that cheap brown suit. “Good evening, ladies. I’m Detective Enrique Morales.”
“She stole my necklace,” accused Miranda. “Arrest her!”
“Arrest me? Oh, honey, you should arrest whoever designed this room.” My voice, complete with sassy Georgia accent, echoed as it bounced off the marble floors.
“How dare you!” Miranda stood near the marble fireplace, her hands fisted and her blue eyes glittering with fury. She wore an ivory cocktail dress that showed off her buff arms and sculpted legs. Hmmm. Kay Unger’s Black Label, if I wasn’t mistaken. With her honey-blonde hair wrapped up just so, Miranda looked like a 1950s Barbie doll—without the politically incorrect boobs. “The very best interior designer in Los Angeles decorated my home,” she blustered.
“Oh,” I said, looking around as if revaluating the room. “I suppose there’s no accountin’ for taste.”
“Please retract your claws, ladies.” Detective Morales sat next to me and pulled out a slim device from his jacket pocket. With the stylus, he started tapping on the screen. “Tell me what happened, Mrs. Andersen.”
“Oh for God’s sake! I was showing this … this thief around my home and the next thing I know my necklace was gone. She stole it.”
“You saw her take it?”
“I … well, no.”
“And it was around your neck?”
She nodded, glaring at me. “She must’ve unclasped from my neck and … hidden it somewhere.”
“In this?” I stood up and splayed out my hands. I wore a tight-fitting Nicole Miller jersey halter dress. Unlike Miranda, I had big tits, and the scooped neckline did a fine job of showing ’em off. The dress went to mid-thigh, and I jerked up the material just enough to get the detective’s attention. “You gonna strip search me, sugar?”
He watched my fingers dance up the stay of my silk stocking then he flashed me a mournful smile. “Much to my eternal regret, that won’t be necessary. Please sit down.”
I lowered myself ever-so-slowly to the couch and crossed my legs. The detective’s gaze roved my calf. His eyes widened when he saw the small gold ankh tattooed above my ankle.
“A college indiscretion,” I said with a smile so sweet my teeth ached. He may have noted the one, but I had six. The five ankhs—one on above each ankle, one at each wrist, and one on my neck—were protections I wanted. The tattoo at the base of my spine, a small red dog pierced by a lightning bolt, had been etched on my skin without consent.
I wiggled my ankle. The detective took the hint and pried his gaze off my feet, returning attention to his PDA. “In this day and age, it seems a small thing to remove those sorts of reminders.”
“Unless you want to remember.”
“Ah. I know what you mean, Mrs.—”
“It’s Miss,” I said, laying on the Southern as thick as maple syrup. I stopped short of fluttering my lashes. Detective Morales might look like a congenial sort, but it would be a mistake to underestimate him. “My name is Miss Jolene Willoughby.”
My real name was Serena Marie Wilson. But everything I currently had on my person, from driver’s license to Mastercard, said I was Miss Jolene Anna Willoughby. If questioned further, I was a debutante from Georgia, the heiress of her daddy’s peach empire.
“How do you know the Andersens?” asked Morales.
“Miranda is old friend of mine. I came into town on business and dropped by for a chat. Her little soiree was already in progress … so she invited me to stay for the party. And what fun it’s been, let me tell you.”
He entered information into the Blackberry. While he was intent on his task, I caught Miranda’s eyes. Tell on me, I telegraphed to her, and I’ll tell on you.
“Does your former association with Mrs. Andersen have anything to do with her accusation that you stole her jewelry?”
Clever question. I was right about Morales. He wasn’t stupid. He stared me, his cop eyes taking in every detail about my expression, my body language.
“About five years ago, we had a disagreement about the ownership of a certain item,” I said.
Miranda stiffened.
“It was a museum-quality piece,” I went on. “Ironically enough, it was also a necklace.”
“We settled that,” she interrupted. “There’s no reason to dig up the past.”
“How strange you should use the word ‘dig.’ You see, Detective Morales—”
“Jolene.” Though I knew it damned near killed her, Miranda apparently decided that reckoning with me later was better than seeing her dirty laundry hung out to dry tonight. The skeletons in Miranda’s closet were numerous and ugly, which was why she’d rather lose a necklace worth a few mil than risk losing the life she’d so carefully fabricated. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Detective Morales.”
“How so?”
“Clearly, I … overreacted. The clasp on that necklace is always giving me trouble. We’ll search the house again. I’m sure the jewels will turn up.”
“You said the necklace was worth more than three million dollars,” said Morales, who had watched our byplay with interest. “And a red diamond is truly rare.”
“Which is why it’s insured,” said Miranda. Her Botoxed-lips pulled into a frosty smile. “I’m very sorry I wasted your valuable time, Detective. Let me send you and your men home with some hors d’oeuvres.”
Part Two: Fugitive, Interrupted