She Crossed the Ballroom Barefoot, and One Man Forgot How to Breathe

“You’re not attending it.”

“They’ll arrest me before I reach the door.”

“Then you’ll have a more interesting obituary than the rest of us.”

Mara looked at her.

Tessa shrugged. “Too soon?”

“Considerably.”

“Sorry.”

A laugh rose in Mara’s throat and collapsed before it became sound. She covered her face with one hand.

Tessa reached across the console, then stopped before touching her. “I can drive you.”

“You work tonight.”

“I’ll call out.”

“You already covered my shifts.”

“They’ll survive.”

“No.”

“Then take the train.”

“It costs money.”

“I have money.”

“You have a transmission that makes a death rattle.”

“It’s more of a death hum.”

Mara lowered her hand. “I’m not borrowing from you.”

“You let me buy coffee.”

“This is two dollars.”

“It was four seventy-five.”

“That should be illegal.”

“Probably why it tastes like guilt.”

For the first time since Thursday morning, Mara smiled.

It vanished quickly, but Tessa saw it and did not comment.

They drove back to the house. On the porch, a strip of yellow delivery paper flapped beneath the screen door. Mara assumed it was another notice from the electric company until she unfolded it.

The envelope had been delivered by hand.

Her name was written across the front in a tight, old-fashioned script.

Inside was a newspaper clipping from the Philadelphia Ledger, dated twelve days earlier. The photograph showed Graham Vale and his fiancée standing beneath a chandelier in Bellweather’s ballroom. He was tall, silver-haired, formal even in a candid pose. She was younger, with dark hair drawn into a smooth low bun and a champagne-colored gown that caught the light like poured metal.

The headline announced their engagement gala.

There was no note.

Tessa read over Mara’s shoulder. “Your mother sent this?”

“She couldn’t have. It was delivered today.”

“Who knew?”

Mara turned the envelope over. Nothing.

The clipping had been folded twice. On the back, beneath an advertisement, someone had written six words in blue ink.

He must see it before the wedding.

Tessa read them aloud.

Mara’s skin tightened along her arms.

“That isn’t my mother’s handwriting,” she said.

“You’re sure?”

“My mother printed everything. Even birthday cards.”

“Could the funeral home have sent it?”

“Why would they?”

“A neighbor?”

“None of them know about the brooch.”

Tessa took the envelope by its edges. “Maybe don’t touch this more than necessary.”

“You watch too many police shows.”

“You work at a veterinary clinic and still think every rash is cancer.”

“Not every rash.”

“Most rashes.”

Mara carried the envelope inside and placed it on the kitchen table. The room smelled faintly of hospice cleanser and burned fabric. The hospital bed had already been removed, leaving four compressed rectangles in the carpet.

She opened the handkerchief beside the clipping.

The brooch looked almost black in the gray daylight.

Tessa leaned nearer without touching it. “That is not fake.”

“You can tell?”

“No. But if it is fake, it is fake in a way I could never afford.”

Mara examined the back. The clasp was thick, tarnished at the hinge. Around the edge, beneath one diamond, was a stamp too small to read.

“Do you know a jeweler?”

“I know a man who buys stolen laptops.”

“That is not the same.”

“He wears rings.”

Mara folded the cloth again. “There’s a shop by the courthouse.”

“You’re going to sell it?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“I’m going to find out whether I’m carrying costume jewelry or a felony.”

The jeweler’s shop occupied the narrow ground floor of a brick building between a tax preparer and a store that sold religious books. A brass bell rang when Mara entered. The man behind the counter looked up from a plate of rice and chicken covered with plastic wrap.

“We’re closed for lunch,” he said.

“The door was unlocked.”

“That is a separate problem.”

Mara almost left. Then she took out the handkerchief.

The man’s eyes shifted to it.

“I only need to know whether this is real.”

“Everyone only needs to know.”

He pushed the plate aside and wiped his hands. His name, according to the small sign on the counter, was Mr. Sayegh. He had a narrow face, a gray mustache, and magnifying lenses clipped to his glasses.

Mara placed the brooch on a black velvet pad.

Mr. Sayegh did not touch it immediately. He looked at Mara first, then at Tessa, who stood near the door with her arms folded.

“Where did you get this?”

“My mother.”

“Where did she get it?”

“I don’t know.”

“That is not a comfortable answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

He put on cotton gloves and lifted the brooch beneath a lamp. He examined the clasp, the stones, and the engraving on the back. Once, he made a small sound through his nose.

“What?” Mara asked.

“Nothing yet.”

“You made a sound.”

“I am allowed sounds.”

He turned the brooch sideways. “The diamonds are old European cut. Not all matched. The emerald has oil treatment, which is normal. Colombian, perhaps, but I would not say without testing. The setting is platinum over gold. Early twentieth century.”

“So it’s real.”

“It appears real.”

“How much?”

Mr. Sayegh removed the lenses and looked at her. “Do not ask that question in a room where someone might answer too quickly.”

“I’m not selling it.”

“Good.”

“But how much?”

“Enough that you should not carry it in a coat pocket.”

Tessa said, “Define enough.”

He looked at the brooch again. “The value depends on provenance. The craftsmanship is excellent. The emerald is significant. At auction, perhaps forty thousand. Perhaps more. Perhaps much more if it belongs to a known collection.”

Mara stared at him.

Her mother had skipped dental work because she could not pay six hundred dollars. She had borrowed money from Mara for heating oil. She had washed and reused plastic bags until the seams split.