“Well, that’s what he paid for them,” Chalmers said. “The original price was higher, but he was a man who liked to bargain. Yes, he liked that. He took great pleasure in that.”
“But they’re worth more?”
“I didn’t say that. I said that’s what he paid for them. It was the same each time. He’d pick a piece-always one of the better ones-and in the end he’d say, ‘I’ll give you two hundred for it.’ ”
“And you took it?”
“Well, you don’t turn down two hundred dollars lightly. Not since the war. The tourist trade-well, you see,” he said, indicating the quiet shop. “One has to make a living.”
“But you didn’t sell at a loss?”
“Oh, I’d never do that. No indeed. But they’re fine pieces. He got a good price.”
“Did he know anything about jewelry?”
“Not a thing. He bought strictly by the price tag. I don’t think he cared about the pieces at all. Of course, the most expensive pieces are the best, so he did very well. He wasn’t cheated. He did come back, you know.”
“But if he didn’t care about them, why was he buying them?”
Chalmers looked at him quizzically. “I assumed they were gifts for a lady.”
“They’re women’s pieces?”
“Oh, yes. You see the fineness of the settings? Not at all appropriate for a man. The concha — I suppose you could stretch a point there, but the other two are definitely ladies’. But I gather he kept them?”
“Yes. Do people ever buy these as an investment?”
“These, yes. Ordinarily, no. Turquoise isn’t a fine gem-stone. There’s a lot of it around, and I have to say, the tourist trade has devalued it. The Indians just stamp these out now, and who can blame them? No one seems to know the difference. But a piece like this-” He held one up. “Look at the workmanship. You’re not likely to see this sort of thing again. There’ll always be a market for this.”
“But why not diamonds or rubies or something?” Connolly said, half to himself.
“Perhaps it was his price range,” Chalmers said, trying to help. “You can’t get really first-class stones, not really first-class, for two hundred dollars. Turquoise is something else. These are top of the line.”
“How long ago did he buy them?”
“The first? Last fall sometime. Before Christmas, anyway, because he came in again at Christmas.”
“And the last?”
“A little after that. I can tell you exactly if you give me a few minutes.”
“Please.”
Chalmers brought out a black account book and leafed through the pages. “Yes, here’s one. I’ll jot down the dates for you, if it’s important,” he said, taking out a piece of paper. “November. Well, I wasn’t far off.” He made a note. “Was he the poor boy who was killed in the park?” he said, not looking up.
Connolly said nothing.
“A terrible thing. So young. And you think it might have something to do with the jewelry?” he asked gently.
“Frankly, no. But we need to check everything. It’s a lot of money.”
“Yes, I wondered about that too. He had all that money, and yet he didn’t seem the type. Of course, since the war-”
“He paid in cash?”
“Yes, always in cash.”
“Is that usual?”
“Usual? At that price? In Santa Fe? No, indeed. Still, I must say it was a convenience, not having to wait for a check to clear.”
“But you didn’t think there was anything wrong?”
Chalmers looked up at him.
“Wrong? There is never anything wrong with cash, my friend. Where he got it was his business, not mine. He wasn’t a gangster, not that I could see. Maybe he gambled. Maybe he sold tires on the black market. Maybe he just preferred cash-some people do. I don’t ask customers for bank references when they’re handing me cash. I didn’t know he would be killed.”
“I didn’t say he was.”
“No, you didn’t. But who else could it be? Maybe that explains it, carrying all that cash. And to think of such things in Santa Fe-robberies in broad daylight-”
“We assume it happened at night,” Connolly said. “We don’t know it was robbery. He may have been meeting a friend.” He held the jeweler’s gaze. The store was now very quiet.
Chalmers stared back at him, then spoke slowly and distinctly, as if he were using a code he did not want Connolly to misunderstand. “Perhaps. But I’ve never heard of such meetings. Not there. In Santa Fe, friends see each other in their houses. In private. It would be a shame to have anything disturb that. People get along because they keep to themselves. You wouldn’t want to disturb that peace. Not here.”
At first he didn’t recognize her. She was walking toward him across the plaza, still dressed in the blouse and riding pants of the night before but with her hair down now, swaying lazily behind her, and her face partially hidden by sunglasses. She was carrying a few books under one arm, leaving the other to keep time with her long stride, and stopped short when she saw him on the curb.
