reached for her change, I saw the cat ring on her finger!
I told myself not to jump to conclusions. Many antiques are reproduced. Cheap imitations of poison rings are probably being cranked out in China and imported by the hundreds. I needed a closer look.
As the woman collected her coffee, I stepped out of line so I could watch her. She was alone. When she set her coffee down to add cream to it, I stood beside her and reached for a napkin. As she stirred cream into her coffee, I studied the ring. The band had the burnished patina of old gold, and fine age lines were visible in the painted tile. I clearly saw the small clasp on the side, where the lid opened. It was an antique poison ring with a cat painted on the tile, and I was sure it belonged to Claire.
When the woman left Starbucks I followed, staying near other shoppers so she wouldnât notice me. I hoped to get the license plate number of her car. I removed my cell phone from my backpack and slipped it into my pocket, where I could grab it quickly to call the police. The bank robber had been a man, but this woman probably knew who he was.
She broke into a run, waving at a city bus. As she boarded, I raced forward. The driver waited for me. I walked to a seat in the back, where I could watch the woman.
We rode for ten minutes before she got off. I was afraid I would be too obvious if I exited with her, so I stayed on the bus and watched to see where she went. The woman entered a small brick apartment building. I got out at the next corner and walked back. The sign on the building said SERENE HOMES FOR SENIORS .
She must be visiting someone. Well, it was still a clue. The police could talk to the residents and learn who had company today.
I went inside. A row of mailboxes, with apartment numbers and the names of residents on them, lined one wall. I began copying the names into my notebook. I had written down about half of the names when the door to the closest apartment opened.
I looked up, and froze. Mrs. Pameronâs nephew stared at me.
âWhat are you doing here?â he asked.
âIâm working on a school project,â I said. âI have to interview someone who remembers World War II.â
He came forward and stood beside me. âYou came to talk to Aunt Martha.â
âShe lives here? I didnât know that!â
âGo inside.â He pointed toward the open apartment door.
I backed away from him, toward the outside door. âI need to get home,â I said.
âYou arenât going anywhere.â He grabbed my arm and jerked me toward the room.
âHelp!â I yelled.
He yanked harder, shoved me inside the apartment, and slammed the door. He turned a dead-bolt lock.
The woman I had followed was sitting on a sofa, watching Oprah and eating a candy bar. Mrs. Pameron sat at a round dining table. She smiled when she saw me. âHello, dear,â she said, as if I visited regularly.
The young woman muted the TV and looked at me. âWhoâs she?â she asked.
âHer mother owns one of the stores that buy antiques from Aunt Martha.â
One of the stores? Mrs. Pameron sells to other shops besides ours ? Mom would be interested in that piece of news.
âI saw her in Starbucks,â the woman said, âand on the bus.â
âI knew it! She followed you! She suspects us, Britney.â
The woman turned off the TV. âHow could she suspect anything?â she asked.
âWhy else would she follow you here?â
âSuspects you of what?â I said.
âIt was her,â Britney said, pointing at Mrs. Pameron. âShe told!â She raised her hand as if to slap Mrs. Pameron.
The old woman cringed.
âNo!â I cried. âShe didnât tell me anything. I donât know what youâre talking about.â
Britney lowered her hand.
âRegardless of how much she knows,â the man said, âthis changes the plan. We need to rob the other bank and
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