Midnight in Ruby Bayou by Elizabeth Lowell

mind, as untouchable as silk within a fine ruby.
    â€œThis looks like a good hunk,” Archer said. He lifted the rock, which was white studded with a red crystal the size of his thumb. “Color isn’t bad.”
    â€œAfghanistan, from a hard-rock mine. The white is marble. The red is ruby, but the stone itself is good only for cabochons. Too riddled with fractures and flaws. Strictly low-end-jewelry stuff. They have better rough in some of the mines, but damned little of it.”
    Faith looked at the stone with new interest, imagining what she could do with it. She loved the unfaceted cabochon cut. It gave a soothing, satiny glow to any stone, no matter what its value.
    â€œBut you’re right,” Walker agreed. “The color is good. Too bad they get so few clear ones in the Afghani mines. And most of what they get isn’t fine. Too orange.”
    While Archer listened and Faith dreamed of designs, Walker went through each piece of rough, explaining its origins. Kenya, Sri Lanka, Cambodia, Myanmar, India, Brazil, Afghanistan, Thailand; names and descriptions came easily, concisely, as did the list of each locality’s limitations when compared to the fabled pigeon-blood gems from Burma. To make his point even more clearly, Walker put a cut and polished—and cooked—version of each locale’s ruby in front of the rough. Many of the gems were quite red, quite clear, quite beautiful.
    Then he put one of Faith’s badly cut Burmese rubies in front of the others. Light seemed to flow into it, fill it, and shimmer out like a dream.
    Archer grunted. “It’s like the difference between dyed Akoya pearls and a fine South Seas natural. Once you see the real thing, you’ll never go back.”
    With a sigh, Faith agreed. Nowhere in the world was there a ruby to compare with the Montegeau stone. She groaned.
    â€œWhat?” Walker asked.
    â€œYou’ve ruined me for other rubies, and I can’t afford my taste as it is.”
    He smiled slowly. “If things work out, you’ll see plenty of these beauties. I’m sure your brother will give you a good price.”
    â€œOkay,” Archer said. He stood and went back to his desk. “I’ll insure the thirteen Montegeau rubies for a million. You go with Faith to Savannah and see if you can cut some kind of deal with her friends on any family jewelry they want to sell, plus any they have in inventory from other estates. Start hitting estates yourself. If that doesn’t pan out, get a really long spoon and head for Eastern Europe.”
    Her brother’s words yanked Faith out of her concentration on the extraordinary ruby. “I don’t need Walker to go to Savannah. I can—”
    â€œIf you want me to insure those rubies,” Archer cut in without looking up from a handful of papers, “you’ll go with Walker and you’ll do everything you can to help him.”
    Once she would have argued furiously, stormed out of her brother’s office, and kept fighting until reality set in. She was older now. Reality was her constant companion. She needed those stones insured. Archer was the only one who could do it fast enough.
    â€œFine,” she said through gritted teeth.
    Three seconds later the office door closed behind her. Softly. Too softly.
    Walker whistled. “I’ve seen wet cats in a better mood.”
    â€œShe’ll get over it.”
    â€œEasy for you to say. You don’t have to spend the next week or two with her.”
    Archer grinned. “Yeah. Good luck, Walker. You’re going to need it.”

8
    T hat night Walker sat in front of his computer with a pizza dripping grease in one hand and an icy bottle of beer next to the keyboard, as he scrolled once more through the lists of stolen rubies. Nothing had changed. Nothing had been added.
    There were no inquiries about a missing twenty-carat ruby with a secular Mughal inscription.
    Frowning, he sipped