Noelle pointed down at the ring from the top, and André Baudelaire removed the ring carefully, placing it on the top of the case.
Noelle picked it up, eyes wide as she brought it closer to her face, lips parted as she turned the piece of jewelry this way and that. “It was my mother’s,” she confirmed. “Look, her grandmother’s initials are carved inside. They’re faded, but you can still see them.”
“Your mother’s grandmother?” Mr. Baudelaire asked. “How fascinating.”
She placed the ring down, her hand hovering over it for a moment as though it’d been hard to let it go. “Yes. Mr. Baudelaire, my father believed his friend Dow Maginn was murdered. He wrote the name of your shop down in his calendar the day before Dow was killed. We’re trying to figure out if there was any connection, as my father has since passed away.”
Mr. Baudelaire frowned. “Oh, I’m sorry.” He picked up the ring, studying it in much the same way Noelle just had. “This lovely piece, yes. The interesting thing is I only took it out of the safe about a year ago. I’m surprised it hasn’t sold yet but expect that it will sooner than later. Some romantic young man sophisticated enough to recognize timeless beauty and understated class when he sees it. And one who has a fiancée who prefers the unique over the ordinary.” He smiled, a subtle tipping of his lips, before he placed it delicately back in the case and slid it shut. “Your father did not want to part with it. In fact, he asked if I might consider more of a pawn-like deal than an outright sale. I don’t do that, and I told him so. But . . . he seemed so desperate. So . . . distraught. It’s why I still remember him.” He rubbed his clean-shaven chin absently, as though trying to recall the specifics of the interaction from so many years ago. “He took the deal I offered. No promises. But . . . I put the ring away anyhow, believing he’d be back to buy it. It got lost in my safe, I suppose. I have quite a collection in there. But styles are cyclical. Platinum, gold, round cut, colored diamonds, you get the idea. I buy for beauty, and for a certain je ne sais quoi.” A smile floated over his lips. “But I display for the current trends and what will sell.”
“Then we got very lucky,” Evan said. What were the odds that her great-grandmother’s ring had sat in a safe, forgotten, until only a year before Noelle had walked through the door of this shop and recognized it? And that it hadn’t been purchased during that time?
“Is there anything else you can tell us about my father? Did he say why he was selling the piece? You said he seemed desperate. Did he say why?” Noelle asked.
Mr. Baudelaire shook his head. Of course not. No such luck. “He needed money in a hurry, I assume. I can’t think of another reason. But if there was one, he didn’t provide it to me.”
Noelle gave the ring one last look. Evan saw the longing in her eyes. It was being sold for over fifteen thousand dollars, however, and it appeared to Evan, who knew very little about antique jewelry, that it was well worth the price if the stone had been properly appraised. And if the longevity of his business spoke to Mr. Baudelaire doing things by the book, then it most definitely had been. What it came down to, though, was that he doubted Noelle had that kind of money. She lived in a small cottage and had been raising a daughter alone. If he’d still had access to the Sinclair fortune, he would have written a check right that moment and gifted it to her. As it stood, he only had his PI salary and a trust that may or may not still be his when he turned thirty. If his father’s dissatisfaction with his life’s choices were any indication, he wasn’t going to count on it.
“We appreciate your time, sir,” Evan said, pulling a card out of his wallet, even though he’d already given one to his son. “If you think of anything else about your transaction with Mr. Meyer, no matter how small or seemingly inconsequential, will you give me a call?”
“Certainly.”
The door tinkled again as they stepped outside. They walked in silence down the block, and he pulled the door of his car open so she could climb inside. He got in the driver’s seat, turning the ignition and blasting the AC but not pulling away from the curb.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I didn’t know my father still had that ring,” she said. “I never asked him, but . . . I just assumed it went the way of the other items he sold to pay off bills.” Bills associated with his lawyer’s fees and court costs from suing my father and losing. She didn’t say it, but she didn’t have to. A small knot formed in his gut. He didn’t feel guilty . . . exactly. But the reminder that what had happened between their fathers would always be between them made him feel sort of mad and sort of sad, and God, he wished he could snap his fingers and make it go away. But he couldn’t.