The Goddaughter's Revenge by Melodie Campbell Page A

request and nothing to cause Tiff concern. I waited.
    She held the ring out to me. I knew it, of course. A beautiful oval sapphire, surrounded by diamonds. Very Princess Di-ish. I’d sold it to her husband two years ago as an anniversary gift.
    I held the ring between two fingers.
    Mrs. Harris continued. “I had it in two weeks ago to get it appraised and cleaned. That nice cousin of yours from New York—the one who was here while you were away—did it for free. But then I noticed it was moving a bit. The stone, I mean.”
    I stared at the center stone. My mouth went dry. I reached for my loupe on the glass countertop.
    I heard my voice, strained but controlled, say, “I can fix this, Mrs. Harris. Leave it with me. I’ll phone you when it’s ready.”
    Minutes passed. I didn’t hear her leave the store. But when I looked up, Tiff was staring at me funny.
    â€œWell?” said Tiff.
    â€œYou were right. It’s a goddamn fake.”

CHAPTER TWO
    We stared at each other across the counter.
    â€œDo you think she knows?” Tiff said. She twirled a strand of jet-black hair around her fingers.
    I looked down at the ring.
    â€œNot a chance. She wouldn’t have brought it in if she did.”
    â€œI was thinking maybe she needed money or something. That she had a fake made so she could sell the real thing without her husband knowing.”
    I put down the loupe.
    â€œMore likely the husband did it. Maybe he needed money fast. Figured his wife wouldn’t notice.” And had no idea she would bring the ring to me, who would notice.
    â€œWhat should we do?”
    I looked off in the distance. Crap. No way could this turn out well.
    â€œNot sure. Let me sleep on it.”
    * * *
    Well, I tried to sleep that night. I tossed and turned, counted sheep and baby lambs. I dozed for a bit and then woke up with a start. The fake stone niggled at me. When had the switch taken place? And how the hell was I going to tell a client that her $20,000 sapphire ring was actually worth only the cost of the setting?
    Sometime before dawn, the phone rang. I counted eight rings, then grabbed for it.
    â€œWho died?” I yelled into the mouthpiece.
    This was my standard response to night calls. On more than one occasion, it had been the right thing to say. Call it an occupational hazard.
    The caller was Sammy the Stringbean. I could tell by the heavy breathing. Not that kind of heavy breathing. More like an asthmatic donkey with a head cold.
    â€œHa,” he said. “Very funny. We got a problem.” He seemed to think I’d care.
    I groaned. “Not again. Not doing this. You got a problem. We don’t got anything. We are going back to bed.”
    I had enough problems of my own, thank you. I didn’t need to get mixed up in any more mob business. The last time had been a royal pain in the butt. Actually, make that foot .
    No more sneaking hot gems across the border in my shoes! No sir. I wasn’t even going to smuggle a donut into the States, if they asked me. Which they might, because our donuts are way better up here.
    I heard a deep sigh.
    Sammy is not a bad guy. I love him to pieces, in a niece-uncle way. He’s far up the food chain in The Hammer, aka Steeltown, aka the industrial city of Hamilton. And he’s my uncle Vince’s cousin, which also makes him a second-cousin-in-law to me, or something. He’s also Jewish, which means we can buy both our pastrami and our prosciutto wholesale in this family.
    Usually, I am happy to give him the time of day. But this wasn’t day. This was friggin’ middle of the night, and I was a girl who valued her beauty sleep.
    â€œSo you got a problem,” I mumbled. “I got a hundred of them, and they’re all family.”
    This was true. I’ve got a lot of family, and they are “well-known” in The Hammer. And I am well-known for hating that fact.
    Sammy cleared his throat.