The Topaz Brooch Read online

  “Billie!” a woman shouted above the din of the car traffic speeding by on Convention Center Boulevard.

  She turned to find her co-presenter from San Francisco, Morgan Bradshaw, waving frantically. “Is there a fire?” Billie yelled.

  Morgan came to a sudden stop, propping her hands on her knees, breathing heavily. Billie gave her a minute to catch her breath. “I’ve been chasing you…gasp…through the convention center…gasp. Is your phone…wheeze…turned off?”

  Billie dug into her leather shoulder bag for her phone. “Sorry. It’s on vibrate. I forgot to switch it back to ring.” The phone’s lock screen showed four unanswered calls. “Did you call me four times?”

  Morgan gave her a sheepish grin. “Just twice. I knew you were going out…pant…and I wanted to catch you…puff…before you left.”

  The other two calls were from Billie’s assistant and could wait a few minutes. She dropped the phone into her purse. “So what’s up?”

  Morgan straightened but was still breathing hard. “I need to pick your brain about the…gasp…panel discussion. We could have done this on the flight…pant…if I hadn’t missed it.”

  “Take some deep, even breaths.” Morgan was carrying an extra thirty pounds from her last pregnancy. What with two mischievous preschool-age boys, a deployed husband, and trying to run a business, she had little time for herself. “If you’d made the flight, you could have visited with my ex while you maintained a white-knuckled grip on the armrest.”

  Morgan recovered from her mad dash through the convention center and could finally talk without gasping. “Since I happen to like your ex, I assume you’re saying I would have hung onto the armrest because it was a bumpy flight. If that was the case, I’m glad I missed it.”

  “You would describe it as bumpy. For me, it was just minor air turbulence.” As an Army Ranger, Billie had been trained to leap from a plane into the jet stream and wait until the last second to open her parachute. She’d mastered the skills needed to survive in deserts and jungles, and stage ambushes behind enemy lines. She could escape a POW camp and kill with her bare hands. No, sir. A little turbulence didn’t bother her at all.

  “I wish I had your nerves of steel,” Morgan said.

  “How can you say that? You get up every morning and face two boys under the age of four. I’d be quaking in my boots. Yeah, you got scared riding two-up on my Kawasaki, but staying awake all night cleaning your kid’s bed after he vomited is a lot scarier than riding on my legendary Ninja.”

  Billie grew up as a risk-taker, an adrenaline junkie until she was rag-dolled by an IED blast. Although the explosion knocked her feet out from under her, she still managed to walk away. That incident, and other issues with Army life that still troubled her, made it easy to retire from the Army.

  As soon as she became eligible, she collected her small retirement savings and never looked back. Instead of returning to New York and family pressure to serve the public in a uniform of a different color—police-blue instead of Army-brown—she moved to California.

  “Since you explain it that way,” Morgan said, “then I guess I’m braver than I feel. So, where are you going now?”

  Billie checked her watch. “I have just enough time to hit an estate sale over on St. Charles Avenue. The sale started this morning, and if I wait any longer, the good stuff will be gone. Come with me. We can talk while we shop.”

  Billie hopped off the curb to hail a taxi. Two sped by, already carrying fares. She kept her arm up, craning her neck to look down the street to see if one was coming. In New York, most taxis were yellow, but in New Orleans, the privately-owned taxis were like the horse of a different color. But not only colors—makes and models too.

  Morgan remained on the sidewalk while Billie waved her arm. “What are you looking for at the sale?”

  “Same as always. China, glassware, silver, napkin rings. I’d love to find some depression glass.”

  A black cab pulled out of traffic and swung to the curb.

  “Our ride’s here.” Billie opened the door and gestured to Morgan to slide into the back seat. Billie followed and immediately reached for her seat belt, giving directions to the cabbie, “3711 St. Charles Avenue.”

  The driver gave her a brief nod, turned on the meter, and pulled out into traffic.

  Morgan pushed the power button to lower the window. “How come I’ve never been to an estate sale?”

  The air was stifling inside the cab, so Billie fiddled with the air conditioner vent. “Can we have some air back here?” The cabbie grumbled before turning on the AC. They raised their windows, but the air was cool, not cold. “I don’t know. Estate sales are one of life’s greatest adventures.”

  “And that’s coming from someone who’s traveled the world.” Morgan pulled a NACE program out of her tote bag and fanned herself with the glossy booklet.

  Billie glanced out the window as the driver turned onto St. Charles Avenue. The avenue was a mixed-use street, with mansions sprinkled in among churches, local businesses, and smaller residences.

  “Traveling in the Army isn’t like traveling on vacation,” Billie said.

  “But you still saw a lot and sampled new foods.”

  “Yeah, but they weren’t places I’d spend money to see again.”

  Morgan fanned herself faster, her bracelets clinking. “From the stories you’ve told me, that rules out return visits to half the globe.”

  “I’m happy enough in Napa, but I’d like to go to Scotland someday.”

  “That’s one place I’ve been, but I doubt I’ll ever traipse through the heather again. I’d rather go someplace new.”

  The taxi came to a standstill, caught in construction, and the heat in the back seat skyrocketed. “Can you give us some more air? It’s stifling back here.”

  Grumbling again, the driver turned up the air.

  “If you’re getting china and glassware for catering jobs, aren’t you afraid they’ll get broken?”

  “I have a couple dozen very active clients in their seventies and eighties who book me two to three times a week to cater their card parties, luncheons, birthdays, anniversaries, and dinner parties. They all want stunning, original table settings, and they try to outdo each other. Some like to mix china patterns. Some like to use clear glass dishes with china for an elegant but casual feel. And they get testy if I use the same china one of their friends just used.”

  “You’ve spoiled them.”

  “Probably, but they remind me of my grannies, and I hate to disappoint them. You know I’m not a big spender. But when it comes to business, satisfying my clients is a top priority.”

  “Why don’t you use their china?” Morgan asked.

  “Several of my clients have downsized and given away their china and silver to their daughters and daughters-in-law. A few have a broken dish or two, and since the set isn’t complete, they’re embarrassed if I ask to use theirs.”

  “You probably have it all on a spreadsheet—who used what and when.”

  Billie laughed. “Am I that predictable?”

  “Yes, ma’am, you are, and I hope they appreciate your hard work.”

  “I guess they do. They keep booking events. But they keep me on my toes, always looking for something new and creative for the tables. Sometimes I think they care more about the look of the event than the food I serve.”

  Billie listened to a voicemail from her assistant. Montgomery Winery’s office manager had called about catering an event. They hadn’t booked anything in three years, and she was surprised—and pleased—to hear from them. The winery had a kitchen staff who handled the tasting room and small events, but they farmed out big jobs. They must be planning a new release gala. She texted her assistant to let the winery know she was out of town and would call the first of the week.

  She smiled as she remembered Rick O’Grady’s brown eyes smiling at her. After the band quit playing at the winery event, he joined his brothers and nephews on stage to entertain the remai
ning guests with their singing. Rick’s romantic style, combined with his tenor voice and rhythmic flexibility on the piano, was like sitting alone in a room with him while he serenaded her.

  “Are you going to talk about your senior citizens and their demands for elegant china this afternoon?” Morgan asked. “Or lead off with your ‘Meredith Montgomery event from hell story?”

  It took Billie a moment to pocket thoughts of Rick and return to the conversation with Morgan. “It’s still the best one I’ve got, but I’ll disguise the where and who. In fact”—she thought back to a recent event that had her grabbing handfuls of her hair to yank out by the roots—“some of my seniors came very close recently, but since I’m so attached to them, I don’t get too frustrated at their shenanigans. What about you?”

  Morgan sighed. “I’m going to talk about the bride who called off the wedding hours before she was supposed to walk down the aisle, and the anniversary party canceled by a client when her husband dropped dead hours before the event.” There was little humor in the hard line of Morgan’s mouth or the narrow slash of white teeth. “The anniversary party turned into a funeral wake, and the wedding reception became a low-key family get-together. Nothing went to waste. But both had unhappy undertones.”

  “Those are perfect examples to use, but I’m so sorry you had to deal with them. I don’t know how I would have handled it.”

  “With your usual exterior calm—”

  “Ha. Ha,” Billie said. “You are one of the few people who know that beneath the calm, both fear and panic prowl through my veins like tigers in the night.”

  Morgan laughed. “The only thing beneath your calm is a thicker layer of calm. I should know. I’ve seen you overwhelmed and frustrated, but you’re always professional, even with demanding clients and aggressive men.”

  “Boy, do I have you fooled.” Billie shuddered in spite of the drugging heat nearly stifling her, and leaned forward so the cab driver wouldn’t miss what she was about to say to him. “I’ll give you a bigger tip if you’ll blast us back here with cold air.”

  The driver immediately cranked up the air conditioner.

  “Are you taking the Battle of New Orleans tour tomorrow?” Morgan asked, waving a flyer with details of the tour.

  Billie shivered. “God, no. I noticed it on the activities list, but no thanks. When I was at West Point, I signed up for a staff ride to study the Battle of New Orleans, and it was the most intensive study I’ve ever done on any topic. I probably know as much as, if not more than, the tour guide. Go. Have fun.” She twisted her class ring with her thumb, a nervous reaction to just thinking about that battlefield. She would never go there again.

  “I will, but what the heck is a staff ride?”

  “An intensive summer study to supplement regular coursework. A professor I admired convinced me to take it. Since the colonel was teaching it, I signed up.” She ground her teeth, remembering how she learned within a week of arriving in NOLA, exactly why he’d encouraged her to take the course.

  “Maybe I’ll blow off the tour, buy a bottle of wine, sit out by the pool, and let you tell me everything you know.”

  Morgan’s proposal stopped Billie from dwelling on the memory. “Here’s the story in fifteen seconds… The Battle of New Orleans was the most lopsided military victory in history—an American miracle. Rising above it all was Andrew Jackson, the larger-than-life frontier militia general who humbled the British Army—the army who at the time believed they had defeated Napoleon. And the battle paved the way for Jackson’s presidency more than a decade later.”

  Morgan’s bobbed hair swung as she turned quickly toward Billie. “I didn’t know any of that.”

  “Now you don’t need to go on the tour. You can drink a bottle of wine, sit by the pool, and ogle hot guys.”

  “While that sounds enticing, I’ll see who else has signed up. If it’s an interesting group, I’ll go anyway.” She tucked the flyer into Billie’s purse. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

  Billie smirked. “I won’t.” It was hard enough returning to New Orleans. She didn’t have to go on the tour of the battlefield for a reminder of what happened there. “You’ll have fun. If they’ve discovered anything new, be sure to let me know. Of all the presidents, Andrew Jackson is one I’d like to meet. He had a tragic life growing up and spent most of his adult years sick and in pain.”

  “I’d like to meet Kennedy,” Morgan said.

  Billie flipped up her Jackie-O glasses and looked closely at Morgan. “Well, with that Marilyn Monroe look you’ve got going on, I’m sure he would have enjoyed meeting you.”

  Morgan blushed. “Marilyn never carried around thirty extra pounds.” Then she snickered and made air quotes. “With your ‘cascading mane of sable hair, white skin, and big brown eyes,’ you’re a guy’s wet dream.”

  Billie made a face. The cascading mane of sable hair comment had appeared in a newspaper article after she catered the Montgomery Winery reopening event. It sounded more like a description of the stallions at the winery than it did of her. She’d spent her life playing down her attributes while participating in sports, then four years at West Point, and later during her deployments. Only in the past few years had she allowed herself to have a little fun with makeup and clothes. And one day she’d have her nose fixed. The small bump was the result of a soccer field mashup that gave her a broken nose and her opponent a red card. The doctor had done a manual realignment, but she still had the bump, and when she looked in a mirror, she tried to rub it off.

  The cabbie pulled to the curb and stopped the meter. “Do you need a receipt?”

  “Yes, please.” Billie checked the address on the mailbox before swiping her credit card. “If you’re ready, Morgan, let’s go shopping.”

  The cabbie handed Billie the receipt, which she tucked into her purse as she exited the cab into the merciless early-afternoon glare.

  Morgan slid out and joined her on the sidewalk. “If we’re going to get back in time, we might have to Uber.”

  “Or we can ride on the streetcar, but an Uber will be quicker.” Billie glanced around the property, which was surrounded by a wrought iron fence. Strips of meticulously pruned shrubbery abutted the fence on both sides, stretching up into a series of chest-high hedges and topiary shrubs. The drone of lawn mowers and the giggle of children playing in their yards floated down the street, but this house, a two-story restored Victorian mansion with a double portico, seemed to be asleep compared to the others nearby.

  “Beautiful home,” Morgan said.

  “And it can be yours for only $4.5 million,” Billie said.

  “Million?”

  “Yep. A steal.” Billie pushed open the gate and walked through. “It has the feel of a house that’s been empty for a while. Someone has trimmed the shrubs and mowed the grass, but look at the weeds in the mulch, and there’s more crabgrass than Bermuda grass.”

  “I didn’t even notice,” Morgan said. “But then I seem to miss half the things you spot.”

  “Your tax dollars paid for my training.” Billie mounted the front steps, surprised to find that a mansion selling for millions had a loose board on the bottom step. She paused at the screen door. The oak door behind it stood open, but since there wasn’t anyone there to welcome potential buyers, she rang the doorbell. The chimes resounded down a long hallway that split the mansion in half.

  A middle-aged man wearing a crisp polo shirt and khakis, with a thin covering of white hair carefully combed across his sunburned pate, hurried to the screen door. “Come in. Come in. No need to stand on ceremony.”

  Billie and Morgan entered the house and smack into the din created by a half dozen people suddenly crisscrossing the hallway as they went from one room to the other. Billie pushed her sunglasses up on her head to hold her hair back.

  “I’m Clovis Thompson.” He handed Billie and Morgan business cards. The embossed white and green card identified him as the owner and auctioneer of Thompson Auction House. “
How can I help you today? Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  Billie stashed the card in her purse. “China, sterling silver flatware, and crystal.”

  His eyes lit up as he pointed down the hall. “Those are all set out on the dining room table. The dining room is the second doorway on the left. You’ll find brochures in each room listing the items for sale. If you have any questions, there are agents stationed throughout the mansion, and they all have company pins on their lapels.”

  “Is the upstairs open as well?” Morgan asked.

  “Yes, and there are several pieces of furniture and some antique jewelry. The agents I mentioned are there as well, ready to answer any questions.”

  “I’m not looking at jewelry today, not even a pretty bauble. But thanks.” Billie whispered to Morgan as they moved away from the door, “It’s places like this where you find incredible bargains. Keep your eyes open.”

  “Okay, but I doubt I can afford anything.”

  “Here’s a little secret,” Billie said. “Most people don’t pay the price on a tag. Instead, they negotiate a better deal. They haggle. It’s a valuable skill, and in many countries, it’s a part of life. If you don’t haggle, they’ll look down on you. So have fun with it.”

  “You must have learned the skill during your deployments.”

  “Nope,” Billie said. “In New York City.” She peeked into the first room off the hallway. It extended along one side of the house with fireplaces at both ends. The room could accommodate a band, dance floor, and a buffet table at the opposite end. Planning an event here would be fun.

  She moved farther into the guts of the mansion, passing cabinets laden with dishes and knickknacks, and walls of leather-bound books rising to a coffered ceiling. The room was perfect for a book club event with appetizers and cocktails, including an author signing and maybe a string quartet. Her clients in Napa would be giddy about hosting an evening like that. She could already hear the strings and taste the spicy hors d’oeuvres.