Slightly Irregular by Rhonda Pollero

was in my bedroom, so I got it, and, almost as an afterthought,I also picked up my study guide. At some point, I had to continue studying for my exam.
    I began to organize the items, creating a spreadsheet of everything by size, color, and style. As I did so, I carefully folded each item. I’d been at it long enough that I’d become numb to the smell of cedar. My guess was that Ellen had stored all this stuff in cedar trunks and/or a cedar-lined closet. But why?
    Taking a quick break before logging the shoes and coats, I sipped my wine and admired the neat stacks of clothing I’d created from four green trash bags. Going to the pantry, I took out a half-dozen shopping bags from high-end stores. Placing my wineglass next to my computer, I then placed a bag with each pile of sorted items.
    When I reached down for a suede coat with what I was pretty sure was a coyote collar, I felt a hard bulge in one pocket. It took me a minute to feel my way around the chocolate-colored coat until I found the opening to the pocket. Slipping my hand inside, I let out a sharp squeal of pain.
    “Dammit!” I yanked my hand back just as a small flow of blood made a bubble on my forefinger. So it wasn’t reason to call an ambulance—the pinprick still hurt.
    As I stuck my finger in my mouth I asked, “Does this qualify as a worker’s comp case?”
    I was much more methodical and careful in my second attempt. I turned the coat upside down and just shook it until a small wad of tissue tumbled out and wobbled around until it came to rest against the leg of the coffee table.
    As I went to pick it up, I tripped over my hem and sent myselfflying, face-first, toward the tile. I hit hard. I hurt my pride and my head.
    Standing, I went to the bathroom and grimaced when I saw the small gash at my hairline. Dabbing it with a Kleenex went only so far. In another blow to my self-esteem, I had to place a Band-Aid on my forehead—at least I had the clear kind—and as I did, I felt the beginnings of a goose egg.
    My first thought was, what would my mother do if I showed up at the wedding looking one scintilla shy of perfect? My second thought was wondering why I’d had the first thought.
    “Whoever said bringing back the maxi-dress was a good idea?” I was still irritated as I returned to the great room. I took a sip of wine—hey, it was good enough for the ancient Greeks—then gingerly bent down to retrieve the tissue-wrapped package. It’d better be worth it. The frigging thing had already cost me two personal injuries.
    Gently, I peeled away the wrappings. Inside were a bracelet, a pair of drop earrings, and four brooches, including the one that had pricked my finger.
    “So what the hell is Ellen doing hiding jewelry inside a coat pocket? Especially this jewelry.” I held one of the brooches up to the light. Just as expected, they were costume but not cheap. No, these had a maker’s marks and brilliant craftsmanship. One-of-a-kind sort of thing. And if Ellen wasn’t hiding it, why did she have it in the first place? I just couldn’t see her wearing frilly, large accessories. No more than I could picture her wearing the acid-washed jeans in stack number five.

Bad decisions make good stories.

seven
    I spread the jewelry out on the coffee table. There was a theme to the pieces. The earrings were freshwater pearls with a tiny crown fashioned from silver and what I thought might be cubic zirconia stones attaching them to the shepherd’s hook. The bracelet had tiny crowns—also silver with possible CZ mountings—placed inside circles. All together, the bracelet had five rings of crowns.
    The brooches were another story. At least I thought so. I went over to the kitchen junk drawer—yeah, I know, new house, no junk, but that’s not how I roll—and retrieved the jeweler’s loupe Becky had given me. Sounds like a strange gift, but it was actually the lead-up to the real gift, a pretty pink sapphire ring to commemorate my twenty-fifth