Blood Rubies by Jane K. Cleland Read Free Book Online

influence,” Sasha said, holding up a black glass knight whose shape evoked the lines and structure of the Chrysler Building in New York City.
    I accepted the box Eric handed me, thanked him, and said, “Good seeing you, Ana. Sasha, I’ll leave you to it.”
    I doubted that Ana would buy either set. Both were distinctive and rare, and therefore pricey, more than most people would want to spend for a wedding gift. The decorative glass set Sasha was showing her now was priced at $1,200; the Bakelite set, $850.
    *   *   *
    When I was three miles away from the museum, I hit a detour. The police had cordoned off a section of Route 108. Turning onto Washington, I caught a glimpse of Timothy checking a camera angle and shouting directions. That stretch of Route 108 led to a bed-and-breakfast known for its lovingly nurtured grounds featuring rare plants, formal flower gardens, and Italianate fountains, and I suspected that he’d selected it as one of his romantic settings.
    Despite the detour, I arrived a few minutes early. I used the time to stretch my legs along a portion of the museum’s well-maintained five-mile-long nature trail. The museum sat in thirty-five acres of donated land. Positioned high on a plateau, the sprawling glass and stone contemporary building overlooked low hills of hardwood and conifer forests, a stream that meandered over and around granite outcroppings, and sweeping meadows and marsh set aside as preservation land. Ty and I often walked the entire trail.
    I paused to admire a mossy rock, and my thoughts drifted to Ana. When listing all the life events that made her a likely candidate for a reality TV show, she’d spoken of a breach with her father. Yet while we were planning my role in the pilot, Ana had mentioned that her dad was going to be featured in a scene expressing his pride in her entrepreneurial accomplishments. I was glad to think their rift had been repaired. I’d asked whether her mom would be in the pilot, too, and Ana’s mood changed. She became subdued, explaining that her mother had died of breast cancer when she, Ana, was nineteen, describing it as an unspeakably devastating loss. She’d been inconsolable, she said, adding bitterly that her grief was made worse when her father had turned almost overnight into a tyrant. Losing beloved mothers to cancer when we were young was an experience we shared. My mom had died a ghastly cancer death when I was thirteen. Unlike Ana, though, her death brought my dad and me closer. We’d circled the wagons, solidifying our tight-knit family of two. I know that everyone grieves differently, but I couldn’t imagine how much harder my loss would have been had my dad not been loving and supportive.
    I set off again, passing a black cherry tree, its delicate white blossoms just beginning to show, circled back along the short route, and popped out by the museum’s outdoor patio. I went inside, told the receptionist why I was there, and took a seat in the lobby, as directed.
    I hadn’t seen Dr. Elizabeth Grayman, a no-nonsense woman who’d been in the job forty years, since she’d been awarded emerita status, three years earlier. I sat on a long backless leather bench facing a wall of windows, watching three small gray birds peck at something on the ground.
    Ten minutes later, a young woman wearing black leggings and a peach silk tunic called my name. I followed her down a long hallway that led to the administrative offices. Dr. Grayman’s corner office had six oversized windows. Bookcases covered two walls, one filled with exhibit catalogues and catalogues raisonnés, the other with books. Her desk was bare except for a laptop computer, a telephone, and a framed photograph of her accepting an award. A printer and a fax machine sat on a credenza positioned against the wall in back of her desk.
    She came out from behind her desk to shake hands and led me to an oval conference