fixture.
“It was a gift to Seth from a wealthy Japanese businessman who’d been touring the United States with his family,” I said. “They were spending a few days at the end of their trip in Cabot Cove—their son had been an exchange student here—and were having dinner at a popular Italian restaurant in town when the father suddenly clutched his chest and collapsed to the floor. Seth and I were at the next table. He immediately started cardiopulmonary resuscitation and saved the Japanese gentleman’s life. The man spent time in the hospital, but thanks to Seth’s quick action he recovered.”
“He was fortunate to have a physician sitting at the next table.”
“Yes, he was. Anyway, six months after the patient returned home to Japan, his son, the one who’d been a student here, came back to Cabot Cove bearing a gift for the doctor who’d ‘given his father the gift of life.’” The knife was a handmade, carbon steel, Kounosuke carving knife that had been made in Sakai, which the son pointed out had been the home of samurai swords since the 1300s, I told George. “The case is made of paulownia wood. The son said the knife brings good luck to those who use it.”
“It’s magnificent.”
“The handle is ivory. See those tiny pearls inlaid around the edges? That character on each side spells Seth’s name. The son told him they’re made from black diamonds.”
“Black diamonds,” George repeated. “They were formed in the heavens millions of years ago, as I understand.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Black diamonds come from meteorites, not like the diamonds we’re more accustomed to that are formed beneath the earth. I did some reading about it after Seth showed me the knife.”
“It’s obviously worth a lot of money,” George said.
“I agree, but Seth never bothered to find out how much. I urged him to put it away in some safe place.”
“Did he?”
“No. He dismissed my suggestion. Instead, he invited me to dinner and used the knife to slice a ham he’d baked for us that evening. I remember him saying: ‘It might have a fancy handle and all, but a knife is made for cutting things.’ He keeps it in a drawer along with his other kitchen knives.” I laughed as George replaced the knife in its box. It didn’t surprise me that Seth wouldn’t give the gift special treatment. He’s the quintessential function-over-form person. No matter how beautiful an object may be, if it doesn’t perform a useful function, it isn’t worth much to him.
I’d balked when Seth said that I should use his gift to carve the turkeys at this year’s charity Thanksgiving dinner, but he’d insisted.
“I’d be devastated if something were to happen to it,” I’d told him.
“Nothing’ll happen to it, Jessica. Besides, it’ll bring good luck to the folks who show up. They need it.”
I added the case containing the knife to the basket I was taking to the senior center, and George carried it out to the car. We would see if the knife lived up to its reputation, and, indeed, if it proved to be good luck to its user. I could use some good luck, I thought, as I closed the door and locked it—and checked again that I had.
Chapter Ten
T he senior center was abuzz with activity when George and I arrived. A long, heated buffet table donated for the occasion by the town’s leading caterer had been delivered earlier in the day, and two of its young employees were busy erecting it. Birgitta Westerholm and her husband, Gus, our deputy mayor, supervised the more than a dozen volunteers who’d already shown up. Although she wasn’t old enough to be considered a “senior,” Birgitta, or Gitta as she was more commonly known, was a familiar face at the center, one of numerous civic undertakings into which she immersed herself.
“Hello, Jessica,” Richard Koser said, taking a break from hauling folding chairs and tables from a storage room. “Ready to do some fancy
“It was a gift to Seth from a wealthy Japanese businessman who’d been touring the United States with his family,” I said. “They were spending a few days at the end of their trip in Cabot Cove—their son had been an exchange student here—and were having dinner at a popular Italian restaurant in town when the father suddenly clutched his chest and collapsed to the floor. Seth and I were at the next table. He immediately started cardiopulmonary resuscitation and saved the Japanese gentleman’s life. The man spent time in the hospital, but thanks to Seth’s quick action he recovered.”
“He was fortunate to have a physician sitting at the next table.”
“Yes, he was. Anyway, six months after the patient returned home to Japan, his son, the one who’d been a student here, came back to Cabot Cove bearing a gift for the doctor who’d ‘given his father the gift of life.’” The knife was a handmade, carbon steel, Kounosuke carving knife that had been made in Sakai, which the son pointed out had been the home of samurai swords since the 1300s, I told George. “The case is made of paulownia wood. The son said the knife brings good luck to those who use it.”
“It’s magnificent.”
“The handle is ivory. See those tiny pearls inlaid around the edges? That character on each side spells Seth’s name. The son told him they’re made from black diamonds.”
“Black diamonds,” George repeated. “They were formed in the heavens millions of years ago, as I understand.”
“You’re right,” I said. “Black diamonds come from meteorites, not like the diamonds we’re more accustomed to that are formed beneath the earth. I did some reading about it after Seth showed me the knife.”
“It’s obviously worth a lot of money,” George said.
“I agree, but Seth never bothered to find out how much. I urged him to put it away in some safe place.”
“Did he?”
“No. He dismissed my suggestion. Instead, he invited me to dinner and used the knife to slice a ham he’d baked for us that evening. I remember him saying: ‘It might have a fancy handle and all, but a knife is made for cutting things.’ He keeps it in a drawer along with his other kitchen knives.” I laughed as George replaced the knife in its box. It didn’t surprise me that Seth wouldn’t give the gift special treatment. He’s the quintessential function-over-form person. No matter how beautiful an object may be, if it doesn’t perform a useful function, it isn’t worth much to him.
I’d balked when Seth said that I should use his gift to carve the turkeys at this year’s charity Thanksgiving dinner, but he’d insisted.
“I’d be devastated if something were to happen to it,” I’d told him.
“Nothing’ll happen to it, Jessica. Besides, it’ll bring good luck to the folks who show up. They need it.”
I added the case containing the knife to the basket I was taking to the senior center, and George carried it out to the car. We would see if the knife lived up to its reputation, and, indeed, if it proved to be good luck to its user. I could use some good luck, I thought, as I closed the door and locked it—and checked again that I had.
Chapter Ten
T he senior center was abuzz with activity when George and I arrived. A long, heated buffet table donated for the occasion by the town’s leading caterer had been delivered earlier in the day, and two of its young employees were busy erecting it. Birgitta Westerholm and her husband, Gus, our deputy mayor, supervised the more than a dozen volunteers who’d already shown up. Although she wasn’t old enough to be considered a “senior,” Birgitta, or Gitta as she was more commonly known, was a familiar face at the center, one of numerous civic undertakings into which she immersed herself.
“Hello, Jessica,” Richard Koser said, taking a break from hauling folding chairs and tables from a storage room. “Ready to do some fancy
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