The Goddaughter's Revenge

THE
GODDAUGHTER'S
REVENGE

THE
GODDAUGHTER'S
REVENGE

MELODIE CAMPBELL

Copyright © 2013 Melodie Campbell

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording or by any information storage
and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission
in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Campbell, Melodie, 1955-
The goddaughter's revenge [electronic resource] / Melodie Campbell.

(Rapid reads)

Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN
978-1-4598-0488-3 (
PDF
).--
ISBN
978-1-4598-0489-0 (
EPUB
)

I. Title. II. Series: Rapid reads (Online)
PS
8605.
A
54745g632 2013      
C
813'.6       
C
2013-901926-
X

First published in the United States, 2013
Library of Congress Control Number:
2013904965

Summary:
When Gina discovers that someone has been switching
real gems with fakes in the jewelry of her best customers,
she takes matters into her own hands. (
RL
3.8)

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for
its publishing programs provided by the following agencies:
the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the
Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia
through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Design by Teresa Bubela
Cover photography by Getty Images

www.orcabook.com

16   15   14   13   •   4   3   2   1

For Dave, who has gamely put up with my
whacky Italian family for decades.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

Okay, I admit it. I would rather be the proud possessor of a rare gemstone than a lakefront condo with parking. Yes, I know this makes me weird. Young women today are supposed to crave the security of owning their own home.

But I say, Real estate, shmeel estate. You can't hold an address in your hand. It doesn't flash and sparkle with the intensity of a thousand night stars. It will never lure you away from the straight and narrow like a siren from some Greek odyssey.

Let's face it. Nobody has ever gone to jail for smuggling a one-bedroom-plus-den out of the country.

However, make that a ten-carat cyan-blue topaz with a past as long as your arm, and I'd do almost anything to possess it.

But don't tell the police.

* * *

Pete was sitting in my back office at Ricci Jewelers, poring over a tray of diamonds. Really nice diamonds. You could buy a whole condo building with those rocks.

“I like the big pear-shaped one. How much does that cost?”

“Too much,” I said. “I'd be afraid to wear it. Might get mugged, you know?”

Pete looked over at me and raised one eyebrow. “By your own family?”

I grimaced. He had me on that one. Who was likely to mug the goddaughter of the local crime boss?

I sighed. “It's still too much.” I swished a stray lock of hair behind my shoulder.

Pete pushed back from the table. He leaned back in the chair. His big hands went behind his head and linked there. I felt the familiar zing as his hazel eyes met mine.

“You know, this is rather like taking coals to Newcastle. You can buy any ring you want in your own store. Maybe I should buy you a car as an engagement gift.”

I smiled at the quaint expression, then shook my head. “No sir, you're not getting out of this. Aunt Miriam always says you're not engaged until you've got the ring. So choose something, buster.”

He smiled back and his eyes twinkled. “You choose something, gorgeous. We should do this together. Your budget is thirty thousand.”

My jaw dropped. “Holy cannoli, Pete—how much do newspaper reporters make?”

A faint knock at the door made us both turn. It was Tiffany, my shop assistant. Her goth getup was somewhat alarming to many customers. Her face right now was even more alarming, and I don't mean from the piercings.

I signaled to her. She used her key to unlock the door.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but you really need to see this.”

She motioned toward the retail end of the store.

I stood up, grabbed my keys and walked around the desk. “Come see me in action,” I said with a smile.

“I'd like to, but I really have to get back. Got a deadline.” Pete sprang easily from the chair to his full six-foot-two height. I love to watch him move. He used to be a quarterback and has that perfect combination of strength and grace. Unusual in a big guy.

Pete turned around at the door. “You like the pear shape, right?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. Who doesn't?

“How much is the big pear-shaped one?”

I met his eyes. They were smiling, just like his mouth.

“Twenty-four thousand,” I said.

“Sold,” he said. Then he grabbed me before I could pass through the door.

* * *

A minute or so later, Pete put me down. I was breathless. He waited for me to pass through the doorway and then shut the door behind us. It locked automatically. Then he continued out the store to the street beyond. I had to stop myself from running to the window to watch as he sauntered out of sight.

Instead, I drew my eyes back to the waiting customer.

An ultra-slim woman with shellacked red hair stood at the counter.

“Good morning, Mrs. Harris. How can I help you?” I said.

She smiled nervously. “The stone in my ring is a little loose. Can you fix it?”

“Of course,” I said. A perfectly normal request and nothing to cause Tiff concern. I waited.

She held the ring out to me. I knew it, of course. A beautiful oval sapphire, surrounded by diamonds. Very Princess Di-ish. I'd sold it to her husband two years ago as an anniversary gift.

I held the ring between two fingers.

Mrs. Harris continued. “I had it in two weeks ago to get it appraised and cleaned. That nice cousin of yours from New York—the one who was here while you were away—did it for free. But then I noticed it was moving a bit. The stone, I mean.”

I stared at the center stone. My mouth went dry. I reached for my loupe on the glass countertop.

I heard my voice, strained but controlled, say, “I can fix this, Mrs. Harris. Leave it with me. I'll phone you when it's ready.”

Minutes passed. I didn't hear her leave the store. But when I looked up, Tiff was staring at me funny.

“Well?” said Tiff.

“You were right. It's a goddamn fake.”

CHAPTER TWO

We stared at each other across the counter.

“Do you think she knows?” Tiff said. She twirled a strand of jet-black hair around her fingers.

I looked down at the ring.

“Not a chance. She wouldn't have brought it in if she did.”

“I was thinking maybe she needed money or something. That she had a fake made so she could sell the real thing without her husband knowing.”

I put down the loupe.

“More likely the husband did it. Maybe he needed money fast. Figured his wife wouldn't notice.” And had no idea she would bring the ring to me, who
would
notice.

“What should we do?”

I looked off in the distance. Crap. No way could this turn out well.

“Not sure. Let me sleep on it.”

* * *

Well, I tried to sleep that night. I tossed and turned, counted sheep and baby lambs. I dozed for a bit and then woke up with a start. The fake stone niggled at me. When had the switch taken place? And how the hell was I going to tell a client that her $20,000 sapphire ring was actually worth only the cost of the setting?

Sometime before dawn, the phone rang. I counted eight rings, then grabbed for it.

“Who died?” I yelled into the mouthpiece.

This was my standard response to night calls. On more than one occasion, it had been the right thing to say. Call it an occupational hazard.

The caller was Sammy the Stringbean. I could tell by the heavy breathing. Not
that
kind of heavy breathing. More like an asthmatic donkey with a head cold.

“Ha,” he said. “Very funny. We got a problem.” He seemed to think I'd care.

I groaned. “Not again. Not doing this.
You
got a problem.
We
don't got anything.
We
are going back to bed.”

I had enough problems of my own, thank you. I didn't need to get mixed up in any more mob business. The last time had been a royal pain in the butt. Actually, make that
foot
.

No more sneaking hot gems across the border in my shoes! No sir. I wasn't even going to smuggle a donut into the States, if they asked me. Which they might, because our donuts are way better up here.

I heard a deep sigh.

Sammy is not a bad guy. I love him to pieces, in a niece-uncle way. He's far up the food chain in The Hammer, aka Steeltown, aka the industrial city of Hamilton. And he's my uncle Vince's cousin, which also makes him a second-cousin-in-law to me, or something. He's also Jewish, which means we can buy both our pastrami and our prosciutto wholesale in this family.

Usually, I am happy to give him the time of day. But this wasn't day. This was friggin' middle of the night, and I was a girl who valued her beauty sleep.

“So you got a problem,” I mumbled. “I got a hundred of them, and they're all family.”

This was true. I've got a lot of family, and they are “well-known” in The Hammer. And I am well-known for hating that fact.

Sammy cleared his throat. “Sugar, not this time. This time, the problem is yours. Meet you at the chicken coop in one hour. Bring your loupe.”

* * *

Dawn was just breaking as I drove up the gravel path to the chicken coop. Of course, it isn't really a chicken coop. It's a two-bedroom cottage on the lakeshore in Stoney Creek. We call it the chicken coop because that's how it was registered for tax purposes. Chickens don't pay much tax. My cousin Maria works in the city tax-assessment department.

Sammy was already there. I passed by his shiny black Mercedes as I rounded the path to the front door. Sunlight sparkled off the lake before me. Gulls danced in the sky. I paused to listen to the lapping waves and then turned to enter the cottage.

I let the screen door slam behind me. Sammy was holding two coffee cups. He handed me one with double cream, no sugar.