“The telephone. Why don’t you just call Captain Ravenel’s family?”
I quickly stuck a forkful of macaroni and cheese into my mouth so I’d have time to think. “I don’t believe that information was on any of his paperwork.”
“But you’re not sure.”
I met my best friend’s gaze. “I don’t think I looked.”
Margie sawed into her Salisbury steak, then dipped it into mashed potatoes. “Because for some reason you’re not too eager to get them here, despite your protests to the contrary.” She smiled. “Even though it gave you a good excuse to snoop through his duffel.”
“I wasn’t snooping. I had a legitimate reason. The man nearly died and yet there’s been no contact from his family whatsoever.”
“But he hasn’t suggested calling them, either.”
I paused. “No.”
Margie smiled as she chewed, her expression like the clever cat who’d figured out where the mouse lived. She picked up her pocketbook and opened it, then took out a small, rectangular, robin’s-egg-blue-colored box. It was worn and frayed along the edges, but I knew the inside was lined with white silk and bore the name of Tiffany & Co. jewelers. She slid it across the table to me.
“I’m just dying to know why you need this now. Your date with the doctor was last night.”
I quickly began shoving the cucumber salad into my mouth, desperate to eat every morsel of my lunch since I wasn’t sure when I’d be eating dinner. I took a quick sip of tepid coffee, then slid the box into my own pocketbook. “In the miniature portrait, the woman is wearing a ruby necklace. One that looks remarkably like this one.”
Margie sat up straighter. “No fooling. Where’d it come from?”
“It’s the only thing of real value—besides the mink coat—that I inherited from my mother. She never wore it—which is why I’m pretty sure my father hadn’t given it to her. But sometimes I’d catch her trying it on and looking at herself in the mirror. I always assumed it came from her mother, but my grandmother was a baker’s wife. I can’t see how he could have ever afforded a piece of jewelry from Tiffany’s.”
Margie leaned toward me, her eyes wide. “Maybe it was stolen. And maybe you’re about to open a can of worms that you can’t shove back once they’re out.”
“Or chances are it’s just a similar necklace and means nothing. I just want to show him. He’s not sure who the woman in the portrait is, but maybe he knows something about the necklace.”
“Or maybe you’re just looking for an excuse to talk to him.” Her wide eyes gleamed.
“The woman looks just like me—complete with dark hair, green eyes, and a pronounced widow’s peak. I can’t simply ignore it.” I took one bite of my tapioca, then slid it across to Margie. “I’ve got to run—it’s yours if you want it.”
But Margie wasn’t looking at the pudding. “Be careful,” she said.
I paused. “Of what?”
“I’m not sure.” A deep vee formed between her brows. “It’s just that this is all so . . . strange.”
I stood and pushed my chair under the table, my hand barely leaving the top of it before the chair was taken by a tall man in a dark suit and hoisted over his head. “Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.”
We said our good-byes and I left, but it was her frown I was still seeing when I returned to the hospital only one minute past the time I was supposed to have returned. I looked around, waiting for Dr. Greeley or the reception nurse to scold me, but was surprised to find the foyer completely empty.
I dropped off my things in the nurses’ quarters, then slid the jewelry box out from my pocketbook and carefully clasped the necklace around my neck. I’d never worn it, always feeling as if it belonged to my mother and not me, that I was somehow just its caretaker. But the gold filigree and the bright red stone felt heavy and cool against my bare skin, falling neatly below my collarbone, as if it had been made for me. As if it had always belonged there.
I buttoned up the collar of my dress, not wanting anyone to see it, then ran all the way up to the attic floor, unable to hold in my anticipation. I paused for a moment outside the door, trying to catch my breath, and was surprised to hear a low murmur of conversation on the other side.
I knocked briefly, then stepped inside, immediately wishing that I hadn’t. Dr. Greeley stood at the foot of the bed, expounding on his extraordinary efforts to save Captain Ravenel, while Nurse Hathaway stood back at a distance, as if unsure whether she should correct the doctor.
But my attention was focused on the woman sitting in my chair, which had been pulled up to the side of the bed, her graceful red-tipped fingers gripping Captain Ravenel’s hand as if it belonged to her. Her almost white-blond hair was worn in a gentle flip, the curve of it around her face exactly like Carole Lombard’s. Even before she turned to look at me with ice blue eyes, I knew it was the woman in the photograph.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said as I hastily attempted to retreat from the room.