e9c12ac8d703d9a536f23183edf8b22c

“Yes, he did,” said Mr. Linoski with an indulgent smile. Even Wikipedia gets it right sometimes, that smile seemed to say. “The original stone was found in the Democratic Republic of Congo in 1967. At the time it was the largest stone ever retrieved in that particular mine. It was cut by an expert cutter in Antwerp, Belgium, heart of the international diamond industry, where the most renowned cutters are located, and then transferred to Khemed to become part of that country’s collection of royal jewels. In 1985 it was set in an engagement ring and offered to the Sheikh’s ninety-ninth wife, the lovely Laura Burns, who was only nineteen at the time of her wedding. She was, according to local lore, supposed to be the Sheikh’s final wife, as he’d decided to stop short of reaching a full hundred, and he was rumored to be so enamored with the young lady that he wanted to gift her the most precious and expensive diamond in the world, the only thing that could possibly compete with his bride’s radiant beauty. She wore the ring at their lavish wedding, and it’s at that point that the story gets a little sketchy. The Sheikh’s wife died at the one-year anniversary of her wedding, and the Pink Lady seems to have vanished without a trace after that.”

“Poor Sheikh,” said Odelia with feeling. “Losing his beloved wife like that must have been a terrible blow.”

“At least he had his ninety-eight other wives to console him,” Dooley pointed out.

“Did they ever find out what happened to the ring?” asked Odelia.

“No, like I said, things are a little sketchy, and no one seems to know what happened to the diamond after the Sheikh’s wife died. But if you look closely at the stone, you can see very faint markings, where the stone was set in a ring.” He offered Odelia his loupe to support his discovery.

She looked through the magnifying glass and said,“I see it. It’s very faint, but those markings are definitely there.”

“Which is why I’m almost certain that this is the fabled Pink Lady,” said the jeweler with a smile of satisfaction. “Which of course will have to be confirmed.”

“Who’s going to have to confirm it?” asked Odelia as she put down the loupe.

“The insurance company contracted to insure the original ring would be my best bet,” said Mr. Linoski. “Which is why your uncle needs to get in touch with the owners of this diamond as soon as possible—Sheikh Bab El Ehr’s heirs. I believe that would be his son, who took over when his father died. Sheikh Bab El Ghat.” He gave Odelia a look of concern. “I really don’t feel safe keeping the stone here any longer than strictly necessary, you know.”

“Maybe you should talk to my uncle,” Odelia suggested as she put me and Dooley down on the floor again. “He might be able to arrange for an officer to keep an eye on your store.”

The jeweler’s face took on a look of annoyance. “I asked him that exact thing. And do you know what he said? That he couldn’t spare anyone at the moment, and that it was up to me to make sure the stone was appropriately secured.” He shook his grizzly head. “I ask you—is that what I pay taxes for?”

“Let me talk to my uncle. I’m sure I can convince him to post a couple of officers outside your shop.”

A look of hope lit up the man’s aged features. “Oh, I’d be most grateful. Most, most grateful.”

“No problem.” She offered the man a radiant smile. “We wouldn’t want Hampton Cove to become known as the town where the famous Pink Lady went missing a second time, now would we?”

4

While Odelia went in search of her uncle to argue with the man about providing some much-needed security for the jeweler, Dooley and I decided to head on over to the hair salon and see what all the fuss was about with this flat earth business. After all, I was pretty sure that Dooley had exaggerated and that everything was just fine and dandy with Hampton Cove’s go-to hair wizard.

But the moment we stepped into the shop, I immediately noticed that something was indeed off: there were no customers, which is exceptional, since Fido’s business is usually buzzing with activity from morning till sometimes late at night, especially on the days that count like the holidays, when everyone wants to look just so.

Buster was seated on the windowsill, glancing up at his master with a forlorn look in his eyes, while said master was glancing through the window of his shop, a forlorn look in his eyes. He was dressed in his usual outfit: a white apron providing ample pockets where he tucked away the tools of his trade, such as there are combs and scissors and the like, only now his scissors weren’t snipping away merrily as they usually did, and his many combs were as idle as his blow-dryer, clearly wondering why this sudden lull in a life that had always been busy as the proverbial bee.

When we entered, Fido looked up, an expectant gleam on his noble visage, but when he saw that it was just us, his face assumed its sad look again, and he resumed his idle gazing out of the window.

“Buster,” I said, “what’s going on?”