Chapter 11: A Market for My Own Jewelry

On Monday morning I went back to the jewelers' arcade with five stones in my bag and a plan.

The plan was simple.

Sell the stones, collect the receipts, learn who the anonymous buyer was.

The dealer with the old loupe greeted me with a stiff little bow.

"Madam. The buyer remains very interested."

"Good," I said. "Double."

He wrote it down, and I handed over the first stone, a pink sapphire, and watched his hand.

His hand shook very slightly as he took the pen.

"Tell me about the buyer," I said.

"I am not permitted."

"You're not permitted to say who. Are you permitted to say how they pay?"

He hesitated. "In cash. In sealed envelopes. Delivered by a driver."

"What does the driver wear?"

"A dark coat. A very good one."

"Does the envelope have a mark on it?"

He sighed and pulled an envelope from a drawer.

It was thick and cream-colored.

In the corner was the stamp of a coiled serpent, and below it, two small gold initials.

C.D.

I put the stone back in my bag.

Then I put the other four stones on the counter, one at a time.

"How many have you sold on their behalf?"

"With today's, six."

"Six," I said. "At double price."

"I assumed it was a collector," the dealer said weakly.

"It's a collector," I said. "He's collecting his own wife's jewelry at twice what it's worth, and I'd like to ask him why."

I walked out of the arcade with my bag in one fist and my phone in the other.

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