Dead In The Water (Rebecca Schwartz Mystery #4) (The Rebecca Schwartz Series)

some good—snapping up the same docile but neglected possession. Jail didn’t faze her because she could turn it to her advantage.
    But there was one thing that theory didn’t cover. She had been anything but cool when we discovered Sadie’s body. Of course, it must have been a shock seeing her jacket and her letter opener in such grisly circumstances. Or had she been not at all shocked—merely acting a part, having framed herself to divert suspicion?
    I realized with a start that I wouldn’t put it past her. She wasn’t my friend anymore—she was someone very different from the woman I’d thought she was—and the truth was, she pretty much disgusted me. But she was Libby and Keil’s mother, and if I was starting to fall for Julio, that was nothing compared to the way I’d lost my heart to Marty’s kids. I was going to have to maintain a semblance of friendliness with her.
    So I stayed till I’d finished my coffee, and it was hard listening to her fresh laments about the way Don had wronged her. Somehow, knowing about Ricky, Jim, and all the gang, I wasn’t nearly as sympathetic anymore.
    There was time before lunch to satisfy my curiosity on something. I looked up “pearls” in the phone book, found only one jeweler listed, and paid a call. The proprietor was a man named Sidney Silversmith, apparently returned to the trade of his ancestors. I told him I represented a San Franciscan interested in buying the Sheffield Pearl and asked if he knew anything about it.
    He shook his head. “You’ll never get it now. It’ll be tied up in probate.”
    I listened politely to the tale of Katy’s murder, agreed the quest was probably hopeless, but said I had to make a report. Did he know how much it was worth?
    “I’ve never actually seen it. If it’s a South Seas pearl of gem quality, it could be worth several hundred thousand. Over a million, perhaps. But I’ve heard it’s a clam pearl.”
    “I think it might be. How can you tell?”
    “A clam pearl has wrinkles. And no luster. Worthless. A curiosity only.”
    “Worthless?”
    “Except to your client.” He was practically sneering. “Collectors will pay anything. A large blue abalone pearl is about to be auctioned next week—Sotheby’s estimates the value at more than three million dollars.” He turned up his palms in seeming amazement. “It’s rare. The smaller blue ones—even they’re worth fifteen, twenty thousand dollars. But the ones that aren’t blue—worth nothing. Even though they get as big as the end of your finger.”
    “I didn’t know abalones made pearls.”
    “Even conchs make pearls. Except they aren’t real pearls. They’re calcareous concretions, pink with a flame design. And freshwater pearls come from mussels—did you know that? But clam pearls have the distinction of being ugly.”
    “And worthless?” I said again.
    “That depends. The Sheffield Pearl is famous—and it’s supposed to be as big as a golf ball. For all I know, there’s someone crazy enough to want it and someone else crazy enough to bid against him. Your client, maybe. If someone wants it, it’s valuable. That’s how people are.” He hunched his shoulders, apparently in disgust at human foibles.
    * * *
     
    Julio’s appetite for adult fare was still raging. For lunch we went to one of those Lazy Susan-style sushi bars, this one with a twist. Each sushi tray was a mechanical sea otter in luxurious repose, your California roll or maguro resting comfortably on its synthetic tummy. In case the patrons weren’t already splitting their sides, the owners had tied red bows around the necks of some of the otters and decorated others with leis of fresh flowers. It looked like a place expressly designed to convert ten-year-olds to the eating of raw fish, but Julio said Esperanza would pick up a hagfish before she’d venture into the joint.
    “I’ve tried.” He sighed. “Believe me, I’ve tried. At least she’ll eat Mexican food, because she’s had it all her life. Amber won’t even eat that. And Marty’s so strict Libby doesn’t dare eat most things. Taking those three to dinner is like trying to find a cure for anorexia.”
    “And you don’t cook, I suppose.”
    “Of course I cook. Are you a sexist? You should have seen me at the beginning of the summer. I cooked fantastic things—lobster, moo shu pork, chile rellenos, crab cakes. I outdid myself. I was the dad from Dad Heaven—Robert Young and Bill Cosby in one incredibly