Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [101]
“Fake?” Judith echoed. “As in…imitation?”
Connie nodded vigorously. “That’s right. Which means, according to Rick, that the robbery had been planned for some time. You can’t create imitations of the real thing without having them copied first.”
Renie grinned. “How’s Erma taking it?”
“She had a fit,” Connie replied, not without a certain amount of glee. “Of course Erma is always having a fit about something, but this time I suppose you can’t blame her.”
Paul had returned with two wine bottles and four glasses. “Shall I act as sommelier?” he inquired.
Connie nodded again. “Of course. You know what you’re doing.”
Paul did. He scrutinized the label, expertly opened the bottle, sniffed the cork, gave the wine a moment to breathe, poured an eighth of an inch into one of the glasses, and took a sip. “Excellent,” he declared. “The cork test is usually a mere formality in restaurants. It’s done quickly, because the customers want to start drinking and eating. But a serious connoisseur will take time to make sure the cork has no musty odor. If it does, the wine may be musty, too.”
Connie smiled fondly at Paul. “You see? I told you he knows what he’s doing. Paul’s so capable. That’s why I intend to let him take over the cruise line. I trust him completely.”
“That’s probably a wise decision,” Renie said.
“A very generous one,” Paul murmured as he carefully poured from the bottle.
“But deserved,” Connie insisted. “The board of directors will have to approve, of course. But I have the majority of shares in the line. Besides, with Erma’s departure, there shouldn’t be so many obstacles. I’m afraid Erma likes to create problems where none actually exist.”
“So her jewels are still missing,” Judith said, accepting a glass of wine from Paul.
“Yes.” Connie smiled again at Paul as he sat down beside her. “I wonder if they were real to begin with.”
Judith couldn’t keep her eyes from wandering around the room. Not only was the view spectacular, but the walls were covered with paintings. Except for a couple of country scenes, the rest featured horses: horses racing around the track; horses in the paddock, horses in their stalls; horses in the field; horses posing with jockeys. Quickly, she counted fourteen such pictures.
There were also a number of photographs displayed on the gleaming cherrywood table next to her chair. More horses, with not only jockeys, but presumably owners and trainers. In one photo, a very young Connie stood next to a black filly in the doorway of a barn. A slightly older Connie—early teens, Judith figured—sat astride a piebald colt while a distinguished-looking older man held the reins. Maybe it was Connie’s father. Another picture showed the same man standing next to a jockey at a racecourse. The jockey was small, lean, and mud-spattered. He reminded Judith of so many of the riders she’d seen over the years at the local track. They were always small and lean, of course. But there was something familiar about this particular jockey. Judith wondered if she’d actually seen him ride in the days when she went with Dan so that he could blow the grocery money on a long shot. It was possible. Jockeys moved from city to city, following the best mounts they could find.
“Do you mean,” Renie was asking, “Erma never had the real thing or that she’d sold the pieces and replaced them with paste?”
“Oh,” Connie replied, “originally she had the authentic goods. Some were heirlooms, handed down through several generations. Mags told me…” Connie paused, her face sobering. “Damn. I still can’t believe…” She raised her head, closed her eyes for a moment, and cleared her throat. “Anyway—Mags thought Erma had been hard hit by the post–9/11 recession. She’d always had her money invested in thoroughly stable companies and bonds and such, but someone—Horace, no doubt—had urged her to buy Silicon Valley stock and make some very speculative investments. Between the dot-com fiasco and