Buried Diamonds Read online

  What others said about

  Buried Diamonds

  “A Portland mystery writer continues her rising career with an engaging tale set in motion when her irrepressible protagonist, Claire Montrose, discovers a diamond ring in a stone wall and sets in motion a hunt into its surprising history.

  —Seattle Post-Intelligence”

  “Portland writer April Henry updates her series starring Claire Montrose in Buried Diamonds (St. Martin's $23.95). While jogging, Claire finds a diamond ring. Her attempts to track down the owner lead to a tragedy from the 1950s, the apparent suicide of a young woman. If you can accept the sequence of whopping coincidences that drive the plot, this is a fine addition to the Montrose saga: Claire remains cheerful and clever, and the City of Roses is winningly portrayed.”

  —Seattle Times

  Henry's acclaimed Claire Montrose series continues with a mystery involving a 50-year-old death and a diamond ring. —Romantic Times

  “Claire Montrose, the Portland (Ore.) gal with a fondness for vanity license plates and a penchant for trouble, finds plenty of both in this fourth solidly entertaining mystery from Henry (Heart-Shaped Box, etc.). … A vivid cast of elderly characters, including Frank, whose newfound popularity can be traced to his ability to drive at night, and Nova, who continues to live as recklessly as ever, will especially please senior fans.”

  —Publisher's Weekly

  “A solid entry in a solid series.”

  —Booklist

  “A warm prize for a chilly day.”

  —Library Journal

  April Henry

  Copyright 2010, 2003 April Henry

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  PUZZLD?

  At the end of each chapter and sprinkled throughout the book, you will find a vanity license plate puzzler. See if you can decode these hidden messages. Look for the glossary key at the end of the book to check your detective work.

  The past isn’t dead. It isn’t even past.

  –William Faulkner

  Chapter 1

  The blow came out of nowhere. The next thing Eddy knew, he was flat on his back. A kid was standing over him, and something green and shiny and slender was heading straight for the side of Eddy’s face.

  His cheek exploded in pain.

  “Go back to where you came from, you wet back!”

  Eddy tried to roll away, but the guy ground his foot on Eddy’s shoulder and pinned him fast. Two-handed, the guy swung the thing he was holding back over his shoulder, where it caught the light. It was a half-size souvenir bat, made out of metal. Eddie’s son had gotten the same thing at PGE Park one time at a baseball game. The bat connected with the bone just above his right eye, and his vision was flooded with blood.

  There were three or four of them he saw now, standing over them, one of them laughing. And one of them, he saw with dimming horror, held a gun.

  Eddy tried to speak, but his throat was filled with hot, salty liquid. I was born here, he wanted to say. I belong here, same as you. But the thought melted from his mind, as insubstantial as cotton candy. He barely felt the hand tug his wallet from his pocket, didn’t hear the rattle and hiss as someone shook and then used a can of spray-paint. When light from a passing car washed over them, his three attackers froze and then ran.

  He was beyond knowing they were gone. Lying on the wet leaves, his legs danced a little, no longer under his control. And then Eduardo Estrada, second generation Mexican-American, lost consciousness.

  When a jogger found him just before the sun began to rise, the blood around Eddy’s head glowed like a black halo in the sodium shine of the street light. Next to him, someone had spray painted the word, “Spic!”

  Chapter 2

  STUVWXY

  Detouring around the desiccated carcass of a dead crow, Claire ran past Portland’s Gabriel Park. At every fourth step, she exhaled just as her right heel hit the ground, the rhythm automatic. It was interrupted by a high-pitched squeal that penetrated past the buds of her headphones, startling Claire and temporarily blotting out Tori Amos singing about a man and a gun. Looking over her shoulder, Claire saw a toddler coasting to the bottom of a short orange plastic slide, her chubby arms raised in triumph.

  Claire returned her attention to the road, just in time to narrowly miss stepping on the body of a plump squirrel. She leaped over it and then stopped for a moment, jogging in place. The squirrel looked whole and unharmed, if you didn’t consider the fact that it wasn’t moving and that its black bead eye never blinked. There wasn’t any blood that she could see. Overhead, telephone and power lines laced the sky. Poor thing must have lost its footing. Maybe it was only stunned. For a moment Claire imagined the squirrel getting to its feet, shaking itself and then scampering off.

  But when she nudged it with her toe, it skidded a couple of inches, stiff and clearly dead. Another childish squeal made her look up. She couldn’t leave the squirrel here, not next to a line of parked cars, each with a car seat in the back. The sight of its lifeless body would surely give some poor kid nightmares for the next few months. A few feet away was a bus shelter with a garbage can. Using only the tips of thumb and forefinger, Claire leaned over and picked up the squirrel’s body, splayed and rigid, then quickly dropped it in the garbage can.

  If he could see her, Dante would be horrified. Whenever she bought a pretzel from a street vendor on her visits to him in New York, he would shudder elaborately, then inform her that the pretzels had surely been languishing for months in rat-infested warehouses in Jersey. Claire would nod while licking the salt from her fingers. Now she vigorously wiped her hand on the seat of her shorts before resuming her run. The gesture was probably just as effective as the times she had seen a mother blow on a fallen pacifier before handing it back to her baby.

  Past the community center, Claire turned left. The hill rose sharply, and her legs promptly turned to lead. Each breath scoured her lungs. She was pushing forty. The days when she might (with a good tailwind, two cups of coffee, and some fast music to urge her on) possibly run a seven-minute mile were behind her. Well behind her. Finally, Claire was forced to stop and pretend to stretch.

  While waiting for her heart rate and breathing to slow, she pressed her palms flat against an old stone wall, stretching her calves. The wall was made up of large gray stones about the size and shape of slightly deflated basketballs. In height, the wall was just a few inches shorter than Claire, who was five foot ten. It ran around two sides of a large yard that began well above the street. The yard’s edge was lined with arbor vitae that formed a second, living wall that began just above the rock wall. Years ago, someone had planted the bushes too close together. Now their stubby branches were interwoven as tight as Velcro. Lengthening her stretch, Claire leaned into the wall, left leg straight behind her, right knee bent, feeling the pull in the Achilles tendon. Stretching, ice, orthotics, special exercises, shoes with so much cushioning they looked like marshmallows – they were all part of Claire’s reality now, whether she liked it or not.

  As she changed legs, she lifted her head for a moment. This close, the spaces between the trunks of the arbor vitae offered her a glimpse of the normally hidden house. The house was two stories; the first made of timber, the second of rough pale stucco diagonally bisected by exposed wood braces. Strips of lead cut the windows into diamond shapes. Claire supposed there was a name for
this particular type of architecture, but all she knew was that the house looked English. Shakespearean. At any moment, Juliet could appear on the second floor balcony. And be surprised to find herself in this neighborhood of Sixties ranch-style houses.

  Claire reached behind her, grabbed her left foot and pulled it to her buttock. Right at eye level was an inch-long chink in the wall where a piece of sandy mortar had fallen out. A spider had knit a web across the half-inch wide opening. Behind it, the hole dipped down, forming a hollow space about the size and shape of a crooked index finger. At that moment, the sun came out from behind a cloud. A ray of light glinted off something inside the chink.

  Something silver and round, shining dully.

  Chapter 3

  XQUIZIT

  Squinting, Claire pressed her face closer to the wall, then sucked in her breath. She was, she realized, looking at a ring.

  First she tried to dig it out with her finger, not even minding the web or that the spider that made it might be nearby. She could just touch the ring’s rounded edge, but not hook it. The ground yielded a twig. Farther up the hill, a school bus came to a halt, red lights flashing. Two young girls got off and began to walk toward her, giggling, staggering under the weight of backpacks nearly as big as they were. Claire stopped what she was doing and pretended to stretch again, covering the chink with the flat of her hand until they passed.

  A few minutes later, the ring lay in the palm of her hand. It was heavy, and black with tarnish. She realized it hadn’t been a glint from the metal that had caught her eye, but rather a sparkle from one of the three clear faceted stones set in the band. The middle one was nearly the size of a dime, the other two as big around as the ends of a pencil eraser. The stones were so big it seemed impossible they were real, yet the ring itself, weighty and substantial, looked like it predated cubic zirconia by at least a hundred years. They must be diamonds. Although the band was wide, it was etched with a delicate filigree. A lady’s ring, she thought, not a man’s. Without making a conscious decision, Claire tried it on. It slid into place easily on her left ring finger. A lady’s diamond ring, a fortune on one woman’s finger.

  Fingers spread, she held out her hand and turned it this way and that. Claire knew it was her imagination, but the ring made her hand feel so much heavier. Normally, she couldn’t stand the feeling of something encircling her finger. There was something about a ring that had always made her feel trapped, like she was wearing a tiny handcuff. Maybe that was why she still wasn’t married, even though Dante had made it clear he was ready whenever she was.

  Who had owned this ring? Claire had the large hands that went with her height, so whoever it was might have been tall, like herself. Or maybe she had been short and stubby, with rings glittering on every finger of her plump hands. But even a woman with a thousand pieces of jewelry would surely have missed a ring like this.

  How long had the ring lain there? Claire looked at the house again. It certainly couldn’t date back to Shakespeare’s time. The oldest houses in this part of Portland had been built about the turn of the last century. The house she shared with her roommate, Charlie, was a few years newer than that. So some time in the past one hundred years, a woman’s ring had somehow become part of this wall. Could she have been helping to build the wall when the ring slid from her finger, its absence unnoticed until it was too late? But would the owner of such a ring have ever gotten her hands dirty, broken her nails and bruised her knuckles as she lifted the heavy stones into place?

  Claire looked at the ring again, turning her hand so that the diamonds caught the light. The ring was so weighty – how could the wearer not have noticed its absence as soon as it was gone? And wouldn’t anyone have torn the wall apart, piece by piece, to get such a ring back?

  An old woman with a prancing black standard poodle rounded the corner. Claire covered her left hand with her right. Whose ring was it, really? If Claire hadn’t seen it, it would have continued to hide in the dark crevice, seen only by the occasional spider. God knows how long it had been there.

  There was something about this ring that made her want to keep it, made her want to make a fist and run all the way home, so fast that her hands would be a blur. It wasn’t that the ring must be worth thousands of dollars. Her desire couldn’t be reduced to words. Maybe it was the heaviness of it, the seriousness of it, the thought of the generations of women who must have worn this ring. Claire’s family didn’t stretch back generations. She had never even known her father, and no one had bothered to keep track of her mother’s ancestors. The little she knew of her history began and ended with her grandmother’s generation.

  If she kept the ring, no one would be the wiser. And who would be harmed? She was probably the only living person who knew of its existence.

  Suddenly, Claire felt ashamed of herself. This ring looked like an heirloom. It had a history. Maybe a hundred years ago, a woman had helped her husband build this wall. By the time she noticed the ring had fallen from her finger it had been buried somewhere in the line of stones that ran nearly the length of the block and then turned to angle back toward the hidden house. Claire imagined how that woman had argued with her husband that they should simply tear the wall down and find the ring, the cost be damned. But he had disagreed, and she had swallowed her anger along with her pride. Or maybe she hadn’t noticed its absence for several hours, didn’t know that the minute she had spent helping steady a stone had led to the ring’s loss. Maybe she had thought she had dropped it on the street, left it by a sink, had it snatched away by some very clever thief. Maybe that was why they hadn’t torn the wall apart until they found the ring – because she hadn’t been absolutely certain that was where it was. Or maybe they had feared that the ring had become wedded to the concrete, that no amount of attacking the wall with pickaxes would free it from its tomb.

  With her hand still tightly clutched around the ring, Claire walked around the corner, bordered by more arbor vitae, and up the steep driveway, past a flower garden filled with dozens of different kinds of wildflowers, but none that she could name. There were no cars parked in the driveway, but the house had a detached two-car garage, both doors closed. It mimicked the style of the house, although it was clearly a more recent addition.

  She had found the ring on these people’s property, and by rights it belonged to them. But what if they had just moved here recently? What if they weren’t the descendents of the woman who had once worn this ring? Then they would know nothing about the ring, and it would mean nothing to them. As far as they would know, there was no ring and there had never been a ring. Really, would they have any more right to it than she did? This ring had been hidden for all these years, as good as gone. What difference would it make to anyone if Claire held on to it, instead of the wall? Her mind came up with one rationalization after another, but she forced her feet to continue walking to the front door.

  In a few seconds, she would show the ring to whoever opened the door. And once she held out her hand, she was sure they would feel the same desire she was still struggling with. There was no bell, just an elaborate knocker that looked like it came straight out of “A Christmas Carol.” Claire picked up the brass ring from the lion’s mouth and let it fall, then listened for footsteps.

  “Can I help you?” An old man leaned out of the door of the house next door and then walked across the driveway toward her. He was tall and stringy, his posture erect. He gave her a smile and a once-over.

  Claire recognized him from previous runs through the neighborhood. He had an old round-edged car, with huge fenders and running boards, that he always seemed to be polishing or tinkering with whenever she ran up the street. Now Claire crossed her arms over the soft fabric of her combination running bra/top, hoping her nipples weren’t showing through the flowered fabric. She tucked her left hand into her armpit and out of his sight.

  “I’m looking for the people who live here.”

  He shook his head. “They’re not here right now.”


  “Do you know when they might be back?” Maybe she would come back later this evening. There was no way she was going to entrust someone else with the ring.

  “They’re in Europe on vacation. They won’t be home for another week or so. But I’m looking after their home while they’re gone. Can I help you with something?”

  Until it bit into her palm, Claire hadn’t realized she was tightening her grasp on the ring. “I was just looking at their wall. I wanted to ask them if they knew where the stones came from. They’re so - unusual.”

  He snorted. “Unusual! They’re just rocks from the river. Someone just took a truck down to the Willamette and filled up the bed a few times.”

  “You were here when they built the wall?” Claire asked, curiosity overcoming her annoyance.

  “Yup.” He extended his hand, and Claire shook it, careful to keep her left hand still tucked out of sight. “I’m Howard Backus. You live around here, don’t you? I’ve seen you out jogging many times.”

  “I’m Claire Montrose. I live a couple of blocks away, on the other side of Vermont. I’ve run by this wall a lot, and today I thought I would take a break and ask about it.” It sounded lame, but she didn’t know what else to tell him. “I thought it was maybe a hundred years old.”

  He feigned indignation. “What - do I look that old to you?” He paused for a beat, as if expecting a denial, then continued on when none came. “Try about half that, and you’d get it right. They built that wall in the summer of 1950, no, I guess it was 1951, because Allen was just back from Korea and I’d been living here for two years by then. At the beginning of the summer they graded the road down to nothing to make it easier to build some new tract houses and that left the Lisacs’ house standing here like an island. Oh, the Lisacs didn’t take too kindly to that. They had to put the wall in to stop their yard from sliding away in the next rain. I was lucky that my house was farther up.”