Today, if all went well, she hoped to also hand him the Lady Melbourne brooch.
But there was more to the case.
Vanderbilt believed the thief who stole the pin had also stolen four fifth-century-BC Greek silver tetradrachm coins worth several million dollars from a New York numismatic event two years ago. Both thefts had similar crime signatures, including state-of-the-art technology to circumvent surveillance systems and cutting torches to access vaults.
“That Charlie, he’s a good man. Husband material, if you ask me.”
“Dad, I’ve told you before, I don’t feel that way about him.”
“But he’s gobsmacked over you.”
“Gobsmacked? What does that mean?”
“Astonished. Over the moon. Heard a sports announcer use it the other day.”
“Did he say he was over the moon about me?”
“No.” He picked up his cards and started flipping through them. “Don’t need to be a mentalist to read that man’s brain. He’d like to make you his Zig Zag Girl.”
Zig Zag was the name of a magic trick Jonathan Jefferies used to perform with his wife, where he appeared to cut her into thirds, yet she’d emerge completely unharmed. The secret was that the true magician was her mom, who knew when to zig and zag to make the illusion look real. Jonathan, who credited his wife with the magic that made their marriage work, liked to call her his Zig Zag Girl.
He flipped the top card over and frowned. “Plus, he’s a lawyer.”
Charlie, nearly fifteen years older than Frances, was a very successful lawyer. Women in the office swore he looked like Michael Douglas in his salad days, which was probably why Frances thought of the villain Gordon Gekko every time she saw him. Charlie had the distinguished career, dapper clothes, perennially tanned, handsome looks, but...something about him turned her off. Couldn’t quite put her finger on it.
“God help me if he were a neurosurgeon.” She leaned over and planted a light kiss on her dad’s forehead.
This close, she caught a whiff of peanut butter. The man was incorrigible, and she was ready to say as much when she caught the pain in his eyes as he glanced at her cheek.
She quickly straightened, looked around for her clutch bag. “There’s some leftover Chinese in the fridge. Maybe enough lettuce for a salad. Lay off the peanut butter, okay? I know,” she said, anticipating his argument, “it’s full of nutrients, and saturated fats are a good thing, but the doctor said one serving a day, which I believe you’ve already had.”
“Bought some Spam the other day,” he said, ignoring her instruction. “I’ll probably make a sandwich with it.”
“We’re pathetic. One of us needs to learn how to cook.”
“Yeah, your mom spoiled us. She’d never opened a can of soup when I met her, but after we got married, that girl...” He gave his head a wistful shake. “Studied cookbooks the way she did her old college books. By the time you were born, she made the best cheeseburger this side of Milwaukee. Some fancy French foods, too, when we had the money. What was that one with chicken and wine?”
“Coq au vin.”
“Yeah, that’s it. We should learn how to make that one of these days.”
But they wouldn’t. Sometimes Frances wondered if the two of them used their lack of cooking skills as a way of holding on to her mother. If neither of them replaced Sarah Jefferies’s role as family chef, then that spot would always be hers.
“Wonder where I left my bag,” she muttered, looking around.
“On the dining-room table we never eat at. Hey, baby girl, call me when you’re done? I’ll keep my cell phone next to me. I worry about you on these cases.”
“You know me, Miss Cautious. I’ll be fine. But I promise to call when I’m done.”
Her dad had never owned a cell phone before she bought him one after he moved in. He thought they were frivolous—said phones were things to get away from, not have strapped to your body at all times. But after she explained she wanted to stay in touch, especially when she was out working a case, he gave in.
Walking briskly to the dining room, Frances called out, “I should be home around eight.”
“So it’s dinner with Charlie, eh?”
“Business dinner,” she corrected, grabbing her bag. She opened it to double check that she had the key fob for her rental car.
“Valentine’s Day is next week, you know,” he yelled. “Maybe you two could—”
“No, we couldn’t,” she yelled back. “Love you. Bye!”
As she shut the front door behind her, Frances wished her dad would get off this Charlie matchmaking kick. She made good money, could comfortably support the two of them, so unless Ryan Gosling wandered into her life with a “Frances Forever” tattoo over his heart, she was fine without a boyfriend or husband.
Frances glanced at the distant dark clouds and hoped they weren’t an omen. Despite her analytical side, she had a superstitious streak. Even after days of preparation, she’d still get “preshow” jitters.
Part of her suspended sentence had been to see a therapist, a lovely older woman named Barbara. She’d suggested that whenever Frances got the jitters, to remind herself she could only control what was in her power and let everything else take its course.
Only problem with that thinking was that Frances liked to control every aspect of her cases. Liked to know every nuance of an investigation, every possible fact she could dredge up. It gave her confidence. Some people felt she had too much confidence, but that was their perception. Or, she liked to think, an acknowledgment of her well-crafted illusion.
But letting everything else take its course?
That would take magical thinking on her part, something even a magician’s daughter couldn’t conjure up.
* * *
SITTING AT THE DESK in the reception area at Morgan-LeRoy Investigations, Braxton Morgan read the text message from his grandmother Glenda a third time, mostly because he couldn’t believe it the first two.
I entered you in the Magic Dream Date Auction at Sensuelle on Valentine’s Day. Raise $$ for Keep ’Em Rolling & the guy who brings in the highest bid wins a car!
It wasn’t that Braxton was against raising money for Grams’s favorite charity, Keep ’Em Rolling, which provided wheelchairs for those in need. The cause was close to her heart, as she was a wheelchair user herself. And he’d love nothing more than to ditch his clunker and drive a new car. Until recently he’d avoided any activity that put him in the public eye, but he was ready to get out and about again, test the Vegas waters.
Not so long ago, as the manager of the high-end strip club Topaz, he’d lived la vida loca en Las Vegas—plush penthouse, Italian designer suits, kick-ass Porsche. At first he pretended not to notice when his boss, a Russian named Yuri Glazkov, muscled people for money or forged documents. After a while he had to admit Yuri was a thug, but Brax figured that as long as he kept his nose clean, no problem.
But like that old saying “You are what you eat,” you’re also who you hang out with.
After a few years working with Yuri, Braxton had been willing to break a law here and there for his boss, justifying it by telling himself he never indulged in violence or threats, just fudging a few numbers. Hell, everybody cheated on their taxes, right? But after Yuri got arrested for tax fraud, Brax couldn’t pretend he wasn’t on his way to being a thug, too.
But,