Do You Promise Not to Tell? (8 page)

Jack studied the workbench. Like surgeon’s instruments, the jeweler’s tools were carefully arranged above the worktable. With his rubber-gloved hand, Jack examined a piece that looked like a scalpel. As he turned it over, the tool slipped from his grasp, hit the linoleum floor, and slid beneath the workbench. As Jack went to retrieve it, he bumped his head on the bottom of the bench as he pulled himself to his feet. That should have hurt more, he thought to himself.

Sliding his hand along the undersurface of the table, he found taped to it a package wrapped in plastic. Jack carefully and quickly unfastened it and slipped it into his jacket pocket.

Pat was surprised when Farrell called to say she wanted to come for a visit. Until that day at Churchill’s they’d completely lost touch with one another.

Pat replaced the receiver in the cradle.

The last time she’d seen Farrell, Peter had been a baby. It was Christmastime. Farrell, then a college sophomore, had brought over a tiny Santa Claus sleeper for Peter, complete with a little red pointed cap.

They’d dressed Peter up in it, and they’d had a good laugh and agreed that he was probably the cutest baby in the whole world.

But after that, it had been awkward, as their lives went off in different directions. Pat felt that Farrell thought she was stupid to be married and a mother at such a young age. Farrell’s talk about what was going on at school was as alien to Pat as chatter about baby teeth was to her friend. By the end of the afternoon visit, both young women were edgy and uncomfortable.

Neither one had followed up after that.

How stupid we were
! Pat thought to herself. But her life had been so busy. And the years had just passed.

After Allan’s death, Pat heard that Mr. and Mrs. Slater had sold their house on O’Toole Street and
moved to a condominium in Sarasota, Florida. She’d assumed that there wasn’t much reason for Farrell to come back to Westwood anymore.

From time to time, Pat had thought about her old friend and wondered what had become of her.

What would Farrell think of Pat’s small-town, humdrum existence compared to the exciting life a KEY News producer must lead?

Saturday

Farrell couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a bus anywhere, much less out to Westwood. Since her parents had moved to Florida, there had been no reason to return to her hometown. She’d completely lost track of her friends from grammar school and high school. Only occasionally, she’d get together with college friends, meeting in the city somewhere for drinks and dinner. But she feared she had become pretty one-dimensional. Work was the main focus of Farrell’s life. Big mistake. Because when work went south, there wasn’t much to fall back on.

She was surprised at how much she was looking forward to her visit with Pat. They had once been fast friends, walking home together day after day, leaving the nuns at St. Andrew’s School behind. They’d stop at the Dinner Bell Deli, buying a couple of Cokes and splitting a package of Yankee Doodles. Cupcakes in hand, they’d make their way past the public junior high, steeling themselves for the predictable scathing comments about their navy plaid uniforms from the kids whose parents didn’t force them to go to Catholic school.

They’d been in the same Girl Scouts troop, had had sleep-overs, gone to the movies, and taken what were, back then, adventurous trips by bus all the way to the
Bergen Mall. Years later, Farrell could still remember Pat’s parents’ phone number.

But high school had split them up. Farrell’s parents had insisted that she go to Immaculate Heart Academy, the all-girl prep school in the next town. Although Pat had passed the school’s stringent entrance exam, and was offered acceptance, her parents hadn’t had the money to pay for the tuition. It was Westwood High for Pat.

For a while, they’d continued to hang out together. But as time passed, each girl became increasingly involved in after-school activities and made new friends at her respective school. Farrell had worked on the school paper and
Halcyon
, the IHA yearbook. For Pat, her main extracurricular activities had been cheerleading, and the good-looking Allan Devereaux.

Farrell remembered how shocked she had been when she heard that Pat was not going on to college.

“What a
waste
,” she’d wailed to her mother.

“Not everyone is made for college, Farrell.”

“Well, Pat
is
. She was the smartest girl in her eighth grade class! Or I thought she was. I can’t believe that she isn’t going to college. I heard she’s going to marry Allan Devereaux instead. How can she just throw her life away?”

The red-and-tan bus pulled to a stop at the depot across the street from the flag-festooned gazebo perched in the manicured park, a picture-postcard of life in small-town America. Perhaps Pat hadn’t made such a bad decision after all, Farrell thought.

If Nadine Paradise was the type to give up easily, she never would have accomplished all she had done over her long, rich life. If Clifford Montgomery could not, or would not, tell her where the crescent brooch had come from, Nadine would try a different tack.

“Victor,” she called.

Her adopted son appeared in the doorway of the conservatory, wearing a white polo shirt and shorts, a tennis racquet in his hand. Victor was off for another morning at the club.

“Yes, Mother?”

“Please, sit down for a minute, dear.”

Victor obeyed, but Nadine knew he was anxious not to be late for his tennis game. He sat on the edge of the chair, fiddling with the strings of the racquet. She didn’t know his partner, Stacey Spinner, was waiting for him. Victor didn’t want her to know. She didn’t have to know everything, did she?

“Victor, I need you to help me with something. I want to find out where the pin I bought at the auction with you came from. Clifford Montgomery at Churchill’s says he can’t tell me because the seller wishes to remain anonymous.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

“He did give me the name of the seller’s agent. It turns out she has some sort of antique shop in Westwood.
I would like you to go over to see her and find out who she sold the pin for.”

Nadine could tell her son did not care for his assignment. Victor didn’t like to be put out, even for her. She halfheartedly told herself it wasn’t because he was lazy, but because he lacked self-confidence. It was safer for him not to try to accomplish anything. But how hard could this be? A shopkeeper in Westwood shouldn’t be too much of a problem. Even for Victor.

“What’s her name?” he asked, sighing heavily.

“Patricia Devereaux, and I would appreciate it if you would go over and speak to her
today
.”

Farrell entered the vestibule of the Consignment Depot and took in the shop, pleased at how welcoming it was. Pat had a real flair for displaying the objects for sale to their best advantage. Anyone walking in could not help but be drawn to the wonderful treasures that awaited.

She spotted Pat at the back of the store, talking with a customer. Pat saw Farrell at the same time, and waved. “Farrell! I’m so glad you’re here. I’ll be right with you.”

Farrell unbuttoned her navy wool pea coat and hung it on an oak wall rack conveniently placed at the front of the shop. Adjusting her green tunic sweater down over her tan corduroys, she began slowly poking around the gleaming mahogany tables covered with artfully arranged shining sterling, sparkling cut glass, and fine crystal. Hand-stitched pillows perched on a velvet-tufted Victorian settee, delicate lacework draped a cherry card table with ball-and-claw feet. A gold-leafed, pagoda-crowned Chinese Chippendale mirror hung over the old fireplace mantel, lighted candles reflecting in its glass.

Farrell thought of her own apartment and how she had neglected it. She still had most of her books in cardboard boxes stacked against a living-room wall because she used her bookcase as a catchall for junk.
Her sofa was a hand-me-down from her parents’ house-cleaning when they had made their move to Florida. She’d never really liked it, but she hadn’t managed to do anything about it. The same was true for the table and chairs in her dining area. She’d barely bothered to hang anything on the walls, and what was there, was haphazardly arranged. A bulletin board, tacked with souvenirs, press releases, and newspaper clippings about favorite stories she’d worked on, belonged more in her office at KEY or in a college student’s dorm than in the living room of a Manhattan apartment of a woman who—ugh, she hated to admit it—was pushing forty.

Pat had finished her conversation with the customer, and came toward Farrell with open arms. “It’s so good to see you!” she said warmly, embracing Farrell in a big hug.

“What a terrific place!” Farrell gestured sweepingly. “I am so impressed. Do you make house calls?”

Pat laughed. “I’m so glad you like it. I have to admit, I’ve been a little nervous about your coming and what you would think about my little shop. It must seem so small-time to you.”

“Honey, you couldn’t be more wrong.”

Peter watched as Charlie made three thick turkey sandwiches. “Heavy on the mayo on mine, Charlie.”

“Why three sandwiches today, Peter?” asked Charlie, as he sliced a pale-looking tomato.

“Mom has an old friend visiting.”

“Oh yeah? Who?”

“Someone she went to school with a million years ago. She seems pretty cool. She’s a producer for KEY News.”

Charlie nodded as he cut the sandwiches and wrapped them in white paper. “Chips?”

“Mmm. Barbecue. And a Coke and two coffees.”

The deli owner packed a brown sack with the Consignment Depot lunch order. “You know, Peter, you’re a good kid. Coming up here every Saturday to help your mom. Most kids wouldn’t be bothered.”

Peter thought about it a minute. “Yeah, I guess so. But it’s been just Mom and me for so long. And she’s been such a good mother. She’s really devoted her life to taking care of me. The least I can do is help her when I can.”

“True. But I hope you’re having a little fun, too. These are good years, Peter. College is a time for you to branch out on your own. I doubt your mom expects you to spend all your spare time with her. For example, what are you doing tonight?”

Peter looked embarrassed. “Having dinner with Mom’s friend.”

Charlie shook his head. “See what I mean?”

“It won’t be so bad. Actually, I’m kinda looking forward to it. Farrell seems really smart and she has a great job. I’ll bet she has some great stories, too. Besides, after dinner I’m going back to Seton Hall for a keg party.”

“Good. That’s more like it. It’s the kind of thing a guy your age should be doing now, while you don’t have any big responsibilities. You’ve got to live a little, kid. Although, don’t tell your mom I said that. She wouldn’t be too happy to know I’m supporting the idea of a little underage drinking.”

As Peter peeled off the dollar bills to pay, Charlie asked, “How come you’re having dinner with your mother’s friend? Why don’t just the two of them go?”

“Oh, Mom finally has a date.”

Charlie felt his heart sink.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Paradise, but I can’t tell you. The person who sold the crescent pin doesn’t want his or her identity known.” Pat was careful not to give a clue as to the sex of the seller.

The man who stood before Pat was clearly uncomfortable. He shifted from foot to foot and he’d already dropped his car keys twice on the hooked rug that covered the office area of the Consignment Depot. Stacey Spinner was with him, having explained her presence there as Nadine Paradise’s decorator.

“You know, Pat, Nadine Paradise was one of the most famous ballerinas in the world.”

“Sure, Stacey, even I, buried here in little old Westwood, have heard of Nadine Paradise.”
Don’t try so hard to impress, Stacey
, Pat said to herself.

“My mother
bought
the pin,” he pleaded. “She paid a good deal of money for it. She really wants to know where it came from.”

“Come on, Pat, I can vouch for Victor.” Stacey entwined her fingers in his and batted her baby-blues up at him.
So that was it
, Pat thought. Stacey had her hat set for the beefy hulk. No accounting for taste.

A reference from Stacey wasn’t worth all that much to Pat. And it was somewhat distasteful to watch the
interior decorator playing up to this guy. He was plainly loving it. Dope.

Pat smiled sadly and shrugged. “I wish I could help you out. But the seller insists on anonymity. I have to respect that.”

The implication was clear.
You, Mr. Paradise, should respect that, too
.

But the man wasn’t giving up easily.

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” he appealed. “My mother will be so disappointed.”

Pat was firm.

“I’m sorry.”

Farrell had been busying herself inspecting an ornate wrought-iron side table, but had listened to the whole conversation. When the annoyed couple left the shop, she looked at Pat expectantly.

“Who were
they
?”