"Lloyd Arthur Esbach - Sister Abigail's Collection" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eshbach Lloyd Arthur)

Sister Abigail’s Collection
by Lloyd Arthur Esbach

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Rob Moreland had walked past the pawnshop countless times over the years and he
knew it was there, of course; but ordinarily for him its dirty windows, screened by a
heavy steel latticework, simply did not exist.

Except today.

It was the skull that caught his at-tention, impinging on the very edge of his
perception. He halted, faced the window and peered through the dinginess. He
moved closer for a better view. Unusual. A time-browned human skull skillfully
encrusted with carefully fit-ted fragments of polished turquoise. Mexican, probably,
and centuries old. Or possibly Mayan. Amazing, the skill of the primitive lapidaries;
and strange to find this, a museum piece, in a pawn-shop window.

He appreciated good gem work. Gem polishing and silver smithing — jew-elry
making — was his hobby.

He half turned away — spun back, staring. As he gazed, it seemed as though
a hand had clutched his throat, cutting off his breath. His eyes widened in unbelief. It
— couldn’t be!

There on a strip of black felt amid a disordered spread of all sorts of jewelry
was a beautiful oval pendant of pierced silver about three inches long. Set in its
center was a large opal, flashing its vari-colored beauty even through the smudged
glass, encircled by small, evenly spaced cabochons of alternating bright green and
lavender jade. More-land stared at the pendant with total incredulity. It was beautiful
— and he knew every stone, every construction detail — for he had made it himself
—but it simply could not be there! Eight months ago he had buried his wife — and
that pendant, her favorite jewel, on a Sterling chain and resting on her breast, had
been buried with her.

With features set in grim lines Rob Moreland entered the pawnshop, paus-ing
momentarily inside the door. With a single glance he took in the crowded confusion
of merchandise covering walls and filling cases, then strode up to the store’s single
occupant, a short, heavy, dark-haired man standing behind a counter.

“That opal pendant in the window — where did it come from?”

Heavy brows lowered and the profes-sional smile vanished. “That’s
infor-mation we never give out. Are you interested — ?”

“Mister, that happens to be stolen goods.” Moreland’s tones were icy. “And
don’t tell me I’m wrong. I made that piece and there’s not another like it in
existence.”

The pawnbroker forced a smile. “My friend, you must be wrong. The lady