Page 84 of Five Stolen Rings

“I was going to replace all of them with high quality replicas,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “The box had dust on it when I took it from your closet. It seemed reasonable to expect that you wouldn’t notice the switch.”

“Mmm,” Maude hums, her eyes narrowing. Then she points at the mood rings. “And the other two authentic rings are…?”

“At my apartment,” I say.

Maude’s bony chin ducks into a slow nod. Then she turns her attention to Stella. “How did you get roped into this, girl?”

I bristle at this address, but Stella doesn’t seem to mind.

“Ah,” she says, her voice weak. “We knew each other when we were kids,” she says. “And I liked having him around while I was over here. It’s kind of—” She breaks off, clears her throat. “It’s sort of an intimidating house.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Maude says as she looks around the living room, and for the first time, she seems vaguely happy. “I’ve always appreciated that.”

When she turns her eyes back to Stella, however, any light in her expression dims into something more severe. “I trusted you to come into my home and take care of it while I was gone.”

Stella’s head drops. “I know,” she says quietly.

“And I expected better from someone with such high accolades.” At Stella’s questioning look, Maude says, “Highly educated, are you not? With a prestigious job at an architectural firm? That’s what sold me.” She adjusts the neckline of her dress. “Your mother said you were an architect. I’ve a fondness for architecture myself, and I know several highly respectable people in that field. It’s the reason I decided to trust you with my home and my children.”

I assume she’s talking about her pets here, and it seems like a bad time to comment, so I don’t.

“I’m not an architect anymore,” Stella says, her voice heavy. “I—lost my job.”

“Just because an artist is not painting does not mean he is not an artist. If you received the training necessary, you’re an architect, whether you have a job or not.” Maude givesanother haughty sniff. “You did a halfway-decent job decorating, I will say. You’ve quite the eye for design.”

Stella brightens slightly at this. “It’s something I’ve always enjoyed,” she admits.

I look back and forth between my girlfriend and my stepmother, bemused. What’s happening right now? Are these womenbonding?

“How did you lose your job, then?” Maude asks. Her voice is careless, casual, but her eyes are shrewd.

“I got fired,” Stella says. Her shoulders slump at the admission, but I’m strangely proud of her for admitting the truth so openly. “The son of the company’s owner came on to me, so I reciprocated—but he was married. His wife found out.” Her cheeks redden. “So I got fired. But I didn’t—” She breaks off and then straightens up. “I didn’t know. And I didn’t actually do anything wrong.”

“I should say not,” Maude says, looking scandalized. “Where was this?”

“In California,” Stella says. She leans over slightly, letting her side press against mine. “At a company called Smith and Sons.”

“Ha,” Maude says, a snap of bitter laughter so loud and unexpected that Stella and I both jump. “If I’ve told Fuller Smith once, I’ve told him a hundred times—that son of his is a dog. It was Junior, I suppose?”

Stella’s head whips to look at me just as I’m looking at her, and I can see my own question mirrored in her eyes:What on earth is happening right now?

“I—he—” Stella begins, stammering, but Maude cuts her off with one imperious wave of her bony hand. Then she pulls a large, ancient-looking cell phone out of who-knows-where. The next thing we know, she’s holding it to her ear.

“Fuller,” she barks one minute later, her spindly brows low. “Didn’t I tell you that son of yours is a good-for-nothing?”

The man on the other end—Fuller Smith Senior, presumably, head of Smith and Sons, themultimillion-dollararchitectural firm—answers angrily, words I can’t make out.

But Maude is having none of it. “Don’t you give me that nonsense,” she says coldly. “You tell that boy to keep his body parts in his pants, and stop making advances toward employees. It’s not their fault he lies like he’s breathing.” She pauses and then adds, “I suppose Priscilla is out of there.”

The wife, Stella mouths at me when I shoot her a questioning look.

“Never liked her anyway,” Maude says, and even though we can’t hear exactly what Fuller Smith’s response is, it could not more clearly be a grumble of agreement. “Well, tell that boy to rein it in,” she finishes. “And for goodness’ sake—do something about your hair. It looks horrible.”

Then, without waiting for a response, she jabs theEnd Callbutton.

“You can’t even see his hair,” I say, because I have so many questions, and this seems as good a place to start as any.

But Maude just cackles. “Don’t need to see it,” she says. “It always looks bad.” She hesitates, her eyes on me. Then, without warning, she tosses the box of rings.

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