A Steal of a Deal (3 page)

I bite my tongue. “Ow! Hey, what’s that all about? Yelling at a woman who’s busy enjoying her meal is not fair.”

Three pairs of eyes stare.

“What?” There can’t be spinach on my teeth. I’m not eating spinach. “What are you guys looking at?”

Max shakes his head. “No one yelled at you. You were way out in la-la land when Miss Mona asked you a question.”

Choosing to ignore the la-la land comment, I turn to my boss. “What did I miss?”

“Not much,” Aunt Weeby says.

“So much!” Miss Mona says. “I think you and Max have come up with a brilliant idea.”

Aunt Weeby, generally allergic to business conversations, now pats my hand, points at a bilious painting on the wall, and murmurs, “That’s a lovely picture.”

My eyebrows fly hair-ward. “Hmm . . . ,” I say before I turn back to Miss Mona. “You know I love you to pieces, but I’m scared of what you consider brilliant ideas. Especially those that have even the most remote connection to foreign countries.”

“What I’m afraid of is losing any and all fabulous opportunities.” Miss Mona purses her lips. “The network hasn’t flourished by ignoring possibilities, you know.”

“A really pretty picture,” Aunt Weeby says, her voice determined and emphatic. “And the colors are great.”

A glance at the orange, red, and acid green makes my eyes hurt. “Yep, it’s colorful, all right.” I turn back to Miss Mona. “We don’t need to go to extraordinary extremes. I’m good at what I do. I know my gems, and my show adds to the network’s bottom line.”

Miss Mona smiles. “I’m the one who hired you, Andie. I know how good you are, and I know better than anyone else the bottom line. I also know a chance when I see one. It’s all the way down in my marrow to grab it and run.”

Aunt Weeby jabs her elbow into my side. “Doesn’t it remind you of someone?”

Sore and unwilling to really comment on the hideous thing, I squirm and scoot my chair a fraction of an inch away from her.

She leans closer. “D’you think they had it painted special for them?”

Max snickers.

No doubt about it, I ignore him, but look from one senior citizen to the other. Usually, the two are in complete accord. But there are times, like now, when these two are enough to drive the sanest soul to the nearest shrink.

And there are those who question
my
sanity.

I take a deep, supposedly calming breath. “You know, Aunt Weeby? I’ll bet it’s one of those production-line paintings they sell out of the back of a rickety van parked in the corner at a gas station. I wouldn’t confuse it with a VanGogh.”

“I will admit,” Miss Mona continues, oblivious of Aunt Weeby’s diversionary tactics, “there were some queasy-making moments during our last trip, but the results? Why, Andie, honey, they were pure genius.”

A quick glance reveals the green around Max’s gills. It has to match the hue around mine. Neither one of us is about to forget anytime soon. “That trip, Miss Mona, was nothing short of a nightmare.”

“VanGogh . . . that’s the guy who whacked off his ear.” Aunt Weeby gives an exaggerated sniff. “His stuff makes me think a’ the nightmares that come after I get indigestion.”

I smooth a hand over the skirt of my dress, ready to take the out she’s giving me and run with it. “VanGogh painted marvelous, moody pieces, and his use of color was nothing short of brilliant. That”—I wave at the smears of primary colors—“is nothing short of . . . ah . . . well, colorful.”

“Hmm . . .” Max grins.

I ignore him—again. “It’s probably more Jackson Pollock than VanGogh.”

“But how about the head? And the body?” Aunt Weeby prods.

I glance at the rectangle on the wall—head? Body? I don’t see what she does. “Interesting.” I snag another piece of pancake with my fork, and rejoice that the conversation has now traveled far afield of the Kashmir issue. “And the colors . . . they’re very . . . primary.”

“Don’t forget we made an excellent profit from the stones we bought in Myanmar.” Miss Mona raises her voice over Aunt Weeby’s and mine, determined, as always. “You were there. And then you sold the stones.”

I groan.

“Miss Mona has a point,” Max says, his eyes sparkling with mischief—the rat. “We sold every last ruby, sapphire, and zircon you bought. Even those other weird things sold too. The ones no one had ever heard of.”

I chow down more pancake.

“D’you think they’d sell it to me? I just have to have it.” Aunt Weeby, true to form, is obviously not finished with our conversation but has now turned to glare at Miss Mona. “What’s the matter with you people? Can’t you see it? It’s the spitting image of our darling little Rio.”

I squint at the swipes of paint, and if I almost close my eyes, I can sort of make out the outline of what some might consider a curved beak. I’m no expert on van art, but I’m ever so grateful to the exotic breed right about now. “I suppose the painter made a bunch of them, but I don’t know that you can track any of them down. And who knows? If you don’t ask, you won’t know if the owners of the restaurant will sell it to you.”

Back to Max, who’d just murmured something about “weird purchases” again.

“Not fair! You know I never bought anything weird in Myanmar. Just because you don’t know your gems doesn’t mean kyanite, danburite, kornerupine, or peridot are weird.”

He winks. “I love it when you talk rocks to me.”

Aaaaargh!
Even when he’s driving me nuts, his mischievous grin melts my bones. What am I going to do with the guy—
Don’t go there, Andie. You’re doing nothing with or about
the guy. You’re as allergic to relationships as Aunt Weeby is
to business chit-chat.

Since our party swells when two other S.T.U.D. employees come up on their way out of the restaurant, I’m definitely doing nothing . . . but scarfing another piece of pancake.

“Hi, all!” Hannah Stowe, my fave camerawoman says. “Food’s great here, don’t you think?”

Glory Cargill, Miss Mona’s newest camerawoman, rubs her nonexistent belly. “Mmm . . . You southerners really know your eats. I’m stuffed with the most delicious pork chops, whipped mashed potatoes dripping with melted butter, and steamed-to-
the
-perfect-crisp broccoli almandine.” Then she stares at my plate, the only one at our table with anything still on it. “Isn’t it a little late for pancakes?”

Why me?
“That’s what I told this crew”—I jab my fork in the direction of my table companions—“but noooo. They wouldn’t think of anything but breakfast at a time when most are getting ready for an early dinner. And they do a mean pancake here. You should try them next time you come.”

“Isn’t that painting of Andie’s little parrot, Rio, absolutely fabulous?” Aunt Weeby asks.

Swallow me, earth!

Hannah winks. “I’ve always been crazy about brunch.”

I steal another mouthful of my now cold, stiff pancakes.

Yeah, I can agree with Hannah, even if my pancakes are past their prime. But then, who isn’t? Past her prime, that is. Especially after a couple of hours spent in the company of the stars of the Cirque du Senior-elles. They do know how to push my frustration button better than anyone—except maybe Mr. Magnificent himself.

Who proceeds to scratch his chin. “Brunch? I think we left that back in the dust. How does ‘linner’ sound? If brunch comes between breakfast and lunch, then linner must be what comes between lunch and dinner.”

I fight the grin; I don’t want to encourage him. I mean, why?

Then Miss Mona throws me for even more of a loop. “See?” She points at Hannah and Glory, her words directed at me. “Here are the eyes of the shows. I think the Lord’s working this one out for me.” To the camerawomen, she says, “C’mon, girls. Grab yourself some seats. We have us some important decisions to make.”

As the women scrounge for chairs, I drop my fork and scoot back. What are my chances for a timely escape?

“I know!” Aunt Weeby cries before I can flee. “I bet I have something like it up in the attic. Y’all know our family’s never thrown any ol’ thing out, and my uncle Zebediah was quite the bird fancier. Whoo-eee! Now, wouldn’t it be super if I could find me my own original treasure hiding with them mothballs and trunks and old chairs?”

So there you have it. Miss Mona must have hired my foot-in-mouth-diseased cohost because she recognized in him the same malady from which her best friend suffers. I’m doomed.

I laugh in helpless surrender.

“What kind of decision are you talking about?” Glory asks Miss Mona, prolonging the nutty nature of the moment.

Hannah plunks her elbows on the last patch of available tabletop and props her chin on the heels of her hands. “I have to assume you’re talking about work stuff, right?”

That’s when it occurs to me. I stick my two pinkies into the corners of my mouth and give a shrill whistle. It works.

Too well.

The entire restaurant comes to a grinding halt.

“Ooops!” That really wasn’t what I’d wanted. I turn to my fellow diners at other tables. “Sorry.” Then I face my crew again. “You guys. It’s Sunday. We just left church. How about if work and business and decisions wait until tomorrow?”

Miss Mona and Aunt Weeby both look stunned. “You’re right,” my aunt says, her tone apologetic.

“It is the Lord’s Day,” Miss Mona concurs, equally chagrined.

Max gives me a knowing look. “The Super-Duper—”

“Don’t say it!” No, I wasn’t rude. Well, maybe just a little.

But I had to cut him off. I did. Really. What he’d been about to say paints me in a very yucky light. One I don’t want to see me in, even though I may have been the one to put myself in its glare. But I had to do something to derail the Miss Mona train. Otherwise she’d have had us chugging off to Kashmir.

And after our trip to the Mogok Valley in Myanmar not too many months ago, I’m not ready to repeat the madness.

“That, ladies and gentlemen,” I tell my fellow worshipers a month later, my smile warm and inviting, “is why Eastside Christian Fellowship’s putting together a number of missions teams to head out to help the victims of the October 2005 Kashmir earthquake.” I point to the back of the room. “Peggy is at the table, waiting to take names, addresses, and phone numbers of all those who want to join me.”

What’s that? you ask. What’s all that “join me in Kashmir” thing? And from the woman who didn’t want Miss Mona to go nuts on the idea of a trip to . . . well, Kashmir?

Let’s just say Laura Seward is one indomitable woman.

No matter what, I’m not going to let Miss Mona bamboozle me into any kind of gemstone shopping foray while I’m in the sapphire-depleted, politically embattled nation. I don’t want to become acquainted with the Kashmiri authorities, not on the wrong side of their weaponry.

Or the Taliban, either.

Oh! You didn’t know? Well, yeah. Those guys are buds with the mountain tribesmen up between Kashmir and Pakistan. Near the mines.

And you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that’d be my fate were I to succumb to Miss Mona’s efforts. I find enough trouble on my own. I don’t need her—or the Duo’s—help. Then there’s the Max factor (pun intended) to consider. Once I had decided to go, I came in for more than my fair share of teasing at the hand of Mr. Magnificent.

“So you’re abandoning me to Danni’s tender mercies,” he had said as we watched the lingerie host do her thing right before the start of one of our shows.

I smirked. “Serves you right.”

“Why? Because I didn’t major in rockology in college?”

“Maybe.” I winked. “And it’s gemology, you goof.”

He scoffed. “I’m not that dumb, Andie. And you didn’t major in footballology or golfology either, but you don’t see me sticking you with a blond piranha in silk and acrylic nails.”

Even though the description of our fellow employee was somewhat accurate, and even though I’ve been on the receiving end of her attacks a time or twelve, that day my conscience reared up its head. “Um . . . how about if we try to find one—just one—of Danni’s redeeming qualities?”

“How about if you find it and then let me in on the secret?”

I swatted his mile-wide shoulder. “Max! That’s mean.”

He crossed his arms. “And some of your snitty comments about me aren’t?”

“I haven’t been snitty—as you put it—in a loooong time.” I tipped up my chin. “I promised Miss Mona I’d play nice, and I have kept my promise.”

Well, I’ve tried. How hard? Hmm . . . I don’t know. My success? Um . . . well, that’s up for interpretation. But I have my reasons. You know.

Max made a major production of looking down his fine wool-clad legs, his arms and hands, twisting one of those arms around to pat his shoulders. “My puncture wounds argue otherwise.”

The channel’s theme song blared out over the airwaves, saving me from further embarrassment. I do have a smart mouth. It’s my eternal downfall, and I try to work on it all the time. I pray about it, try to harness it, but don’t always succeed. And Max has been at the receiving end ever since he showed up at the network.

He did come to his job unprepared. A meteorologist is no geologist, much less gemologist, so Max stepped in with no prior gemstone knowledge. But I did go overboard for a while. I’m reformed. Now.