Bead onTrouble Read online

  Barbara Burnett Smith

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Croup

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 382, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., £10 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England Penguin Group Ireland. 25 St, Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwel , Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., I I Community Centre. Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—1 10 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), Cm. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty,) Ltd., 24 Sturdec Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2106, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business es-tablishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  BEAD ON TROUBLE

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime edition., January 2005

  Copyright 2005 by Barbara Burnett Smith.

  Cover art by One by Two.

  Interior text design by Stacy Irwin.

  Al rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in arty printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.

  Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 0-425-19999-1

  BERKLEY PRIME CIUMEe

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The Beckley Prime Crime design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA

  1 0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

  This one is for Margaret who took me in as family,

  and who supports everyone's dreams and

  aspirations.

  With much love.

  Acknowledgments

  It is most important to thank Caroline Young Petrequin, who is my final reader, and who always helps me bring the book together, even when I have questionable scenes! Her time, effort, and friendship have made me a better writer.

  I would also like to thank the talented artisans of the Austin Bead Society. I can only stand back and marvel at the amazing things they do with beads, and how willing they are to share their knowledge. Mary Newton has been especially helpful, both with beading and reading!

  I am also very appreciative of my agent, Nancy Love—when I needed a champion, she was there. Every writer deserves her kind of support.

  Without my editor, Gail Fortune, this series would not exist.

  I'm thrilled that it does, and that she wanted me to bring it to life. Thank you.

  Many people support me on a regular basis so I can write: Linda Bartholomew, Relda Ivey, Gregg Jacques, and Alyssa Reid. It's lucky for me that I have them.

  And, of course, Gary is the one who always supports me, loves me, and thinks I'm an amazing writer. What woman could ask for a better husband?

  To one and all, thank you.

  You can visit me at www.BarbaraBurnettSmith.com

  One

  "Boom boom,

  Ain't it great to be crazy?

  Boom boom,

  Ain't it great to be nuts like us,

  Silly and foolish all day long.

  Boom boom

  Ain't it great to be crazy?"

  Camp song

  —origin unknown

  I feel the need—" I held up my hand to do a high five with Beth. "The need to bead!"

  Our hands missed as she bent to grab a blur of gray and white fur. "Sinatra!" The kitten streaked for the open front door behind me. "Catch him!" she said.

  In a move that had to be left over from when my children were young, I caught him with one hand, while I swung Beth's front door closed with the other_ Rather proud of myself, and grateful for stretch jeans, I straightened up.

  "I've got him," I said.

  Beth was glaring in our direction. "That cat _ . ." she said.

  He was five months old and part Lilac Siamese and part whatever wandered through the neighborhood and took his mama's fancy. Whatever his breed, he was pure trouble.

  "Mr. Sinatra, are you causing Beth grief again?"

  "Yes, he is," she said.

  To contradict her, he started nuzzling my neck, purring happily as if that had been the plan all along. I trained my blue eyes on his even lighter ones. "Don't you try to sweeten me up," I said.

  "Are you sure you won't take him?" Beth asked. "He's just not right for us. He and Ron really don't get along."

  "Alpha males," I muttered. Of course, they didn't get along; alpha males don't, even when one is a cat and the other is a supposedly mature man.

  "Regardless, it's causing a problem. I'll pay you," she went on. "Sinatra even likes you best."

  "I'm thinking about it," I said, looking at her for the first time. We had both gotten perms a few days earlier and now my hair, which once upon a time was just blonde without the silver "highlights," looped in big, soft curls. Suave, I called it, not to be confused with the shampoo name. Unfortunately, Beth's light brown hair was frizzy and sticking out wildly. That was just typical, and one of the reasons I worry about her—Beth can never seem to catch a break.

  Today she appeared even more off-kilter than usual. It was nearly two in the afternoon, and she was still in her pajamas with her reading glasses askew on the end of her nose. "You said you'd be ready," I reminded her.

  "I'm sorry, Kitzi. The way this day has gone, we're lucky I'm not running down the street naked, brandishing knives."

  I love Beth dearly, but it wasn't a visual I chose to dwell on.

  To my left I could see into her bedroom where her suitcase was open with a few things hanging out of it. Two bedrolls stood near the door, but her bead boxes were missing, a sure sign she wasn't finished packing.

  "So, tell me what's wrong," I said, putting the kitten on the floor. He immediately attacked a large-leaved plant.

  "Sic 'em, Tiger," I said.

  "Don't encourage him, and nothing's wrong, just in-sane," Beth said. "I had planned to be ready, in fact, I was right on schedule, but there are mitigating circumstances."

  She moved toward her antique coffee table and picked up a piece of paper.

  "It was you who insisted we get there early," I reminded her.

  We were headed to Camp Green Clover, a kid's camp that had been our place for R & R since we were children.

  To be more exact, I was eight years old the first time I rolled over in my camp bunk to see Beth watching me; I'd been crying because I was homesick. The counselor had adv
ised me to "stop it right now" and had marched out the door. Beth made a joke of that, commiserating in her own inimitable style, and after a few minutes she had me laughing.

  I had thought Beth was the smartest, funniest, and bravest person in the world. That was almost fifty years ago, and those years have proved me right Beyond that, Beth is the most loyal friend I've ever had. She knows things about me that I wish had never happened, and she's been gracious enough to pretend she's forgotten.

  These days we attend Green Clover during the twice-yearly Craft Retreats, where rubber stampers and bead-aholics can find fellowship without the distraction of twelve-step meetings.

  I looked at my watch. We'd planned to arrive early enough to get bunks in our favorite cabin, the Lazy L. The camp was only about a twenty-minute drive south of town, so if Beth hurried we could still make it. "How long is it going to take you—"

  "Read, before you say another word." She handed me the paper she'd picked up.

  It was an e-mail from GRNCloverGAL„ our friend Cordy Wright who now owned the camp.

  I read. Tivolini buyer is coming for the weekend. She's looking for new beaded jewelry designs. Bring something fantastic. Cordy.

  "Tivolini?" I said with reverence. "Really? Tivolini as in the Tivolini catalog?"

  "Genuflect when you say that."

  Not quite Horchow or Nieman Marcus, but close.

  "What an incredible opportunity."

  Beads have been popular since caveman days. Back then they used seashells strung together for money, like a prehistoric Club Med. After that almost every culture in every location around the world used beads for jewelry and ornamentation. Tutankhamen's tomb held thousands of beads, and so did Mayan temples. Beaded jewelry is so in vogue right now that even Dr. Laura is making necklaces, and that woman surely has other ways to spend her time.

  Beth has worked with beads for years, making everything from tiny amulet bags that are to die for, to jewelry, and once, even a beaded top for her daughter.

  She doesn't make her own beads, instead she has the unerring eye of an artist for all things beautiful, and she puts beads together in such a way that her jewelry is outstanding. She sells her one-of-a-kind pieces to specialty shops and artsy boutiques, but she's always resisted sub-mitting work to the likes of Tivolini. They would purchase her designs and have them mass-produced. I don't think she's held back because of any artistic principle, but more because she lacks self-confidence. Tivolini is considered the very top of the line. If Cellini were producing work today, it would be for Tivolini.

  To me their catalog is a dream book, or do I mean drool book?

  "I spent all day," she said, "creating some new pieces to show them."

  "You did? Beth, this could mean the big time!" Finally, this could be Beth's turn to shine. "So you really want this contract?"

  Beth removed her reading glasses to look at me squarely. "I want this more than I wanted sex with Clifford Balzo in twelfth grade."

  "No kidding." I was delighted. "It's time for people to take notice of your work."

  I meant all people, not just buyers. Since their wedding day, her husband, Ron, has acted as if he had married beneath his station. He treats Beth's design work like a little hobby that's harmless, but borders on useless. Even when Beth started getting contracts, he was more annoyed than pleased and refused to say she was an artisan or a bead designer. He called her "crafty." In return, I call him Mo-Ron, but only to myself.

  "One thing is for sure," she said, "If I lose out, it won't be because I didn't try." There was a desperation to her expression that I'd rarely seen before. "I'm good, right?"

  "You're way beyond good—you're unbelievable. Beth, you are the best designer I've ever seen—"

  "Thank you. Don't get carried away."

  "Okay. Then tell me about young Mr. Balzb," I said. Between summer camps Beth lived in Tulsa while I had lived in Texas, which meant we missed some significant events in each other's lives. Clifford Balzo was obviously one of them. "And did you?" I went on.

  "Did I what?"

  "Don't be coy."

  "Clifford Balzo could have sex with any girl in school plus half the teachers, and I mean anytime, anyplace. Why would he bother with me?"

  I studied her very casual expression. "Apparently he did. How was it? Where was it?"

  "In the backseat of my father's Buick. It was awkward but interesting."

  "I'd like to hear about it some time."

  "I'm sure the details have slipped my mind," she lied.

  "Maybe they'll come back to you at camp. After a few margaritas."

  "I doubt it:'

  "So, what did you make?" Clifford Baize might have been a fun interlude, but this was serious business.

  Bidness as we say in Texas. "Not that it matters, because everything you make is wonderful. Do you know the buyer?" I frowned. "It can't be anyone who's come to camp before, can it? I mean, we'd have heard long before this, wouldn't we?"

  "All I know is what's in the e-mail. I tried to talk to Cordy, but she hasn't called me back. I do know that with Tivolini there's going to be some very stiff competition."

  "TonyCraft will be in there," I said. Tony Campanelli does design work and puts out kits under the name TonyCraft. He's a fortyish and good-looking male in an arena where most of the participants are slightly-past-middle-aged women, which makes him the darling of the clan.

  He's also talented, but his designs are more predictable than Beth's. Beth's flair is what puts her above the others.

  "He's no competition unless the Tivolini buyer is a woman who can be swayed by a good-looking man in tight jeans:'

  "The buyer could be a male," Beth said. "Who could still be swayed by a good-looking man in tight jeans."

  "Don't dwell on it." I had moved on to the next competitor in the line. "We can count on May Feather to be flaunting her wares." That sounded tacky, and I didn't mean for it to. I like May, except now that she was suddenly in competition with Beth.

  May was a semi—Native American who works primarily in turquoise and silver. Many of the silver beads she uses come from the craftsmen in her tribe, which is why her work is so expensive. She is also beautiful, as are her designs. "You think Cordy told May?"

  "I would imagine."

  "Even the Tivolini Company has to make a profit, and May's things are pretty, but they can't be duplicated."

  "I come not to praise Caesar, but to bury him," Beth said. "I can only control my own work."

  "You're right. Besides, your designs will win the buyer over."

  She let out a long breath. "I wish I had your confidence."

  "You should have." Before she could argue against herself, I had another idea. "You know, we could do some things to tip the scales in your favor—like a dinner party at my house."

  "I don't know . . ."

  "We could really make a splash. We'll invite the governor."

  "Just the governor? Not the president?"

  "The president isn't in town," I said. "And this is serious—

  it's how business is done today, with lots of schmoozing.

  tell you what, we could create an event to go along with the dinner; something like a trunk show, but lots more elegant."

  The more I thought about it, the better I liked it. "I think the governor would do the trick. People are very impressed by him." He's a cutie who can hold up his end of a conversation. And a soup spoon, for that matter.

  The governor and I aren't close, but we're "family friends." I am a Camden, daughter and granddaughter of governors and the niece of a U.S. senator. I was also a Texas senator for four years before I quit for two very good reasons: first, any jackass can get elected, and I realized that way too many of them had been. Second, I don't take well to compromise.

  Most of the time being a Camden is the same as being a Smith or a Jones, but there are perks. Knowing people in high places is one of them, and when I can use those connections, I do. I particularly like using them for the good of
the deserving, and Beth was deserving.

  Beth said, "That's an awful lot of trouble, and I don't want that kind of fuss:'

  "You're worth it."

  "And, I'd rather not."

  "Okay, we'll make it smaller. How about just a luncheon with the governor's wife? It can still be special." Ideas started popping. "Here's my plan, we'll get a limo to pick up the buyer—everyone loves some pampering. Oh! And as a parting gift we'll give everyone a bracelet. One of your pieces, of course. Or, earrings, since those would be cheaper. I can help you make them, if you come up with the design."

  "Kitzi, you're doing it again."

  "I am not; I'm just talking about a luncheon!'

  "Yes, you are."

  I looked at the expression on her face and felt myself shift from drive to neutral in one deflating instant. I'd been leaping ahead with my plans, disregarding Beth's reluc-tance. "Damn. I'm sorry; I am doing it, aren't I?"

  "It's okay," she said. "It's what I expect from you. And admire."

  I'm told I take after my grandfather, the wildcatter rob-ber baron, who served sixteen years as governor of Texas.

  In some ways he was larger than life, building a magnifi-cent mansion to reflect his personal exuberance. He also made sweeping changes in government policies, as well as shifting the type of people who served the state. He was big on equality and giving everyone a chance. When it came to wielding power, the man had all the moves down pat, but he was also the biggest teddy bear in the state and had a hard time saying no to anyone in real need. Those traits garnered him as many detractors as supporters.

  I adored my grandfather and grew up believing that there wasn't a problem in the world my granddaddy couldn't fix.

  As I've learned the hard way, that's a terrific trait for a grandfather, but it can be overdone in a friend.

  I sighed. "I'm fixing you," I said.

  Beth patted my arm. "Not me, just the situation. Even though I love it when you pull rank, let's not, okay? 'Just stop it now.' "