“Posture’s wrong,” Kat said.
“He’s still…hot,” Gabrielle said, as if it were the greatest insult in the world.
“I feel so objectified. So…cheap,” Hale told them, but the girls talked on.
“This would work from a distance, but in close quarters and under high scrutiny…” Kat let the thought trail off.
“Couldn’t you have found someone younger?” Gabrielle said.
“It was a miracle I found him.” Hale pointed to the documents on the table.
“We either need a young guy for you to impersonate or an old guy to do the impersonating!” Gabrielle threw her hands into the air. “We need—”
“No,” Kat said before the words could even come out. “Uncle Eddie is not a part of this.”
Gabrielle crossed her arms. “But he is the ultimate old guy.”
“Maybe we should call him, Kat,” Hale said. “I mean, where are we going to find a suitable old guy in twenty-four hours?”
“Excuse me, miss?”
Kat turned toward the soft voice and had to shake her head. For a second, she could have sworn she was seeing double. She looked between the photo of Ezra Jones that lay on the table and the way Marcus stood in the door. They had the same eyes, the same coloring, and the same look of people who have been orbiting around great wealth and power—always on the perimeter, always close enough to serve—for a lifetime.
Marcus drew a deep breath. “Your dinner is ready.”
CHAPTER 7
The Cleopatra Emerald was not cursed—everyone at the Oliver Kelly Corporation for Auctions and Antiquities said so.
After all, an emerald—no matter how large—did not cause the ship carrying Oliver Kelly the First to sink in shallow waters off the coast of Nova Scotia. And once the stone was set in platinum and given to a railroad heiress from Buenos Aires, there was no way any necklace—no matter how heavy—could force a woman to lose her head in a very tragic steam engine incident.
Of course, it was impossible to deny that the next owner went bankrupt. The small country that added the stone to its crown jewels was invaded. And the museum that displayed the Cleopatra for a short time was burned almost entirely to the ground.
But it wasn’t cursed.
Everybody at the Kelly Corporation said so.
“It’s not cursed, Mr. Jones.”
“Of course not.” Hale gave a deep throaty laugh and slapped Marcus on the back. Marcus, as per their agreement, said nothing. “But, Mr. Kelly, as the Cleopatra’s insurer of record, Mr. Jones is of the opinion that the stone would be best left exactly where it is.”
“Excuse me.” Kelly cut him off. “Who are you, exactly?”
“Well, as I said on the phone, Mr. Kelly, I’m Colin Knightsbury. I’m Mr. Jones’s personal assistant.”
Kelly seemed to consider this before turning and saying, “Fine.”
Hale was not short, lazy, or unathletic, and yet it felt somehow like a struggle to keep up, as they followed Oliver Kelly the Third down the polished halls and gleaming corridors. It didn’t look like the sort of place that had its roots in shady places and black market deals, but if there was one thing every W. W. Hale learned early on, it’s that you never really want to know where the money comes from.
“And as I said on the phone, we at Chamberlain and King believe that moving the Cleopatra on this schedule could be quite dangerous. If you could delay—”
Kelly came to an abrupt stop and wheeled on the pair. “I’m sure you would like me to delay, but seeing that it’s my stone, I think I’ll do with it as I please.”
“Before his death,” Hale started, “your father was adamant that the stone not be displayed in public, and—”
“My father inherited this company,” Kelly snapped, gesturing to the people and things that filled the hall. “And do you know what he did with it?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Nothing, Mr. Jones. He maintained what my grandfather had built—that’s all. I don’t expect you to understand what it’s like to be in a family business, but the job of future generations is not to maintain. The one major decision my father made was to buy the Cleopatra back thirty years ago, and then he locked it up goodness knows where—”
“Switzerland,” Hale said.