Page 5 of Five Stolen Rings
But Maude Ellery doesn’t seem to hear me. “I’ve got to dash, Miss Partridge. I trust you will not need further instruction, but should you need to get in touch, texting this number will suffice. Bye bye, then.”
And she’s gone, and I’m left half-confused by her words and half-awed at the sight before me.
The first impression this house gives is of vast, dark luxury. It’s Victorian, probably authentic, with panels of dark wood and ornately carved details. Everything isheavy—the rich red fabrics, the intricate chandeliers, even the air itself as it drags and pulls into my lungs and then settles with unnatural stillness.
I trail through the foyer, my jaw hanging as my eyes take in the details, my steps quiet on the deep green Turkish rug that covers a large portion of the hardwood floor. There’s a massive staircase that splits in two halfway up and winds around; I pass underneath the right branch and into the next room.
It’s a lot of the same. Velvet and opulence and stained-glass light fixtures and?—
“Oh!” The word jumps to my lips as my wandering feet stop abruptly in front of a large painting hanging over the fireplace. “Mygoodness.”
My first instinct is to cover my eyes, which have popped about as wide open as they’ll go, because there are things on display here that are none of my business. This must be what Maude meant about the portraits.
It’s a giant painting of a middle-aged woman with a blondish-grayish pixie cut, dressed in a slinky leopard-printdress that rides high on her thighs as she lounges sinuously on what looks like a velvet chaise. Gravity is doing dangerous things with the plunging neckline of the dress and the body parts it’s supposed to cover, and I wince when I realize that Maude mentionedportraits—plural. There must be more of these around here, watching me with uncomfortably seductive eyes.
Forget about security cameras. No one would dare do anything sketchy with a picture like this watching them—I certainly wouldn’t.
I trail into the kitchen, glad to put some distance between me and the lounging lady—it must be Maude, right?—while I pull my mom’s number up on my phone and then pressCall.
“Mom,” I say when she answers, cupping my hand around my mouth and speaking quietly in case the security cameras around here pick up audio. “There’s a big portrait of a half-naked lady over the fireplace.”
My mom bursts into laughter, a bright, cheerful sound that calls to mind sunshine and a childhood full of love. “You know, I can’t say I’m shocked,” she says. “Maude is an interesting lady.”
“I’d say so,” I say, glancing around the gleaming kitchen until I spot the refrigerator. “How do you two know each other, exactly?” My mom is friendly and vivacious, and even though I only talked to Maude Ellery for two minutes, I can’t imagine them as friends.
“Oh, I don’tknowher, per se,” my mom says, her voice thoughtful. “She’s somewhat of a regular at the store. She came in yesterday evening and I rang her up, and I asked about her holiday plans. She mentioned she was going out of town today and was looking for someone to watch her houselast minute, since her previous plan fell through—she seemed agitated about it. That’s it, really.”
“That makes more sense,” I say. “She doesn’t seem like your type of person.”
“Every person is my type of person,” my mom says, and she’s not wrong; she can make friends with anyone, anywhere, in any amount of time.
It’s not a trait she passed on to me, sadly. I can make friends, but it takes time, and effort, and a lot of overthinking on my part. Thank goodness for the friendships I made when I was young that stuck around, the ones that grew as I grew. Those are the relationships that have stayed the strongest.
Well,I think as a little blip of guilt bubbles in my stomach.Most of them have stayed strong.
No need to think abouthimright now, though—or ever again, for that matter.
Water under the bridge and whatnot.
I chat with my mom for a minute while I check out the closet with the animal supplies, and I lie blatantly to myself while I do, refusing to admit that this place is a little creepy and I’m glad for someone to talk to. I only hang up with her when I go meet the animals.
“All right,” I say, referring to the sheet from the fridge as I peer into the large glass terrarium-like room that almost certainly was not part of the original home. It’s on the other side of the kitchen wall, brightly lit and lush with plants and even two small trees. “How am I supposed to tell four green birds apart?”
Because they’re all parakeets, according to the info sheet—Chanel, Gucci, Louis, and Ralph—and according to the occasionalsquawksthat reach my ears through the glass,they take their noise-making very seriously. But they all look alike, energetic and vividly green, and I’m not a bird girl.
“You will be a group noun from here on out,” I tell them apologetically. “Because I cannot tell you apart. Sorry.” I let myself into the glass-walled room and dole out the feed, and I hate every second, because I swear I canfeelthem looking at me—a prickling sensation on the back of my neck, probably as they try to decide if they want to dive-bomb me or not. I get out of there as quickly as I can, and then I google what the collective noun for parakeets is.
“A pandemonium of parrots,” I mutter, glancing over my shoulder at the birds, one of whom is still watching me. “Or a chatter of budgerigars.” Both of those seem fitting. I sigh. “Well, let’s find the plants and open some windows, I guess. And where are those cats?”
Me
Have you ever seen a giant painting of a sixty-something woman in a hot-pink minidress straddling a motorcycle?
India
It worries me that you’re asking this.
Me
