Death by Diamond by Annette Blair

Author:Annette Blair [Blair, Annette]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

“What took so long?” I asked Kyle when he joined us.

“The police were tearing up her coffin lining, looking for the diamonds, and I refused to send her to her eternal reward in torn satin.”

“She would never have forgiven you if you tried,” I said.

“Right, so I had her put in a fresh coffin. It took a good argument and a lot of time.”

“Why did the police wait until she was inside the coffin?”

“They thought the fact that we were burying her so fast with no announcement at all was suspicious—they just didn’t get me trying to avoid ten thousand fans parading through—and they figured the placement of her body would indicate which coffin needed to be searched.”

“Like she was gonna take the diamonds with her?”

“No,” Kyle said. “Like her murderer was going to dig her up later and retrieve the diamonds.”

“Gross.”

Kyle straightened his tie. “Tell me about it.”

Werner rocked on his heels. “I’ve seen it done. Caught the murderer digging the old lady up. Casket’s memento drawer full of stolen jewelry.”

Every one of us looked his way.

He simply shrugged.

Finally, when they let us into the room with Dom, the casket was open, temporarily. We alone were being allowed to view the body before they closed it for her wake and memorial service.

Though she did look fine in that strapless black vintage Atelier Versace gown, with just a sprinkling of Pierpont diamonds, no amount of makeup could have fixed her face to her satisfaction, or mine.

“They made her look beautiful,” I whispered to Kyle as I took the kneeler and he stood looking down at her. It wasn’t true, of course. Her face looked ghastly, even covered in makeup. I wept despite myself.

In the middle of my tears, a sickness swept over me. A miasma of floaty nausea. Oh no, I thought. I can’t pass out now. It would be so embarrassing. I bowed my head, so it would look like I was praying while I let the dizziness pass.

When my light-headedness abated, I raised my head, but Dominique no longer lay in the casket before me, this one a copper casket, not bronze, had a blue lining, not cream. Inside, a handsome, mature man with a head of dark hair, a bit white at the temples, wore a Nehru jacket—weird even when it was popular—and a manly diamond as big as my fist. My heart broke just to look at him.

I wondered how long ago he died, but someone stopped with a memorial program and I saw that it was dated only two weeks before.

Dom had just lost someone she cared deeply for, a gorgeous man a bit older than her, though she reportedly had a young lover: Gregor Zukovski, possible Slavic diamond smuggler.

I realized that I was patting the dead man’s clasped hands, while mine were swathed in black lace Victorian gloves, circa 1860, and I was sobbing, heartbroken, over his loss. In this state between psychic awareness and reality, I sometimes lost myself. Now I wanted to know if my gut-wrenching tears were for Dom or for her lover.

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