Free Confidence Tricks by Tamara Morgan Page B

thirty-third floor, she rather thought the statement might fall somewhere along the lines of lying rich boys better watch out. They knew where she lived, her real name and who knew what else about her. She was simply leveling the score.
    Before Bea had interrupted her at the computer, she’d discovered a few fascinating tidbits about the Charles family—namely that they owned a jewelry-and-art insurance firm that had been in operation for more than a hundred years. Jewelry. Art. Money. Incredible good looks—that one hadn’t been hard to miss. More than a few newspaper clips had depicted one of the Charles men with his arm around a well-endowed woman.
    It didn’t take a genius to realize that their family business and their thieving activities were somehow linked. The question was, how were they linked? And what did it have to do with the fake necklace they’d taken from Todd?
    The elevator was out of the question for obvious, claustrophobic reasons, so Poppy was forced to take the stairs to their floor. Thirty flights in and she was about ready to chuck the shoes all the way down to the bottom of the stairwell. Yet another reason why rich people sucked—if they hated small spaces, they’d pay a therapist to talk their problems away. Poppy’s people walked instead. At least the calf workout was nice.
    She paused for a few seconds once she reached the correct door, straightening her skirt and underwear, which had both ridden to unfathomable heights during her ascent.
    The floor she stepped out onto wasn’t in any way remarkable, at least not as far as upscale downtown Seattle business real estate went. It was all glass surfaces and sparkling stainless steel, which extended about a hundred feet in the distance, where rows of individual offices fit together like pieces of a Tetris game. Each individual office was walled in with glass, giving the place an eerily fish-tank-like atmosphere.
    “Can I help you?” a cheerful woman chirped from behind the reception counter. She looked a bit like Poppy’s version of Natalie, except this woman’s hair was a more natural shade of blonde, and her well-tailored suit looked infinitely more comfortable than Natalie’s Spanx-lined monstrosities.
    “I’m not sure,” Poppy said truthfully. “What can you tell me about this place?”
    The woman’s eyes widened in surprise, but she was much too professional to toss Poppy out on her rear. “We-ell, I guess that depends on what you want to know. We’re an insurance firm dealing mostly in art and jewelry, with some high-end furniture and heirlooms passing through. We also do valuations and appraisals—usually for the items we insure, but also for private clients. Did you have something you wanted appraised?”
    “You mean…like a really old, ugly yellow chair or something?”
    The woman’s eyebrows flew that time, and she reached for her phone. “Do you have a really old, ugly yellow chair?”
    Her hand stayed in place on the receiver as she waited for Poppy’s answer. Poppy was dying to know who she’d call—if maybe Graff was on site and required immediate notification of any and all hideous pieces of furniture for acquisition, or if it was some kind of code word that would get her into the elite back offices—but she wasn’t quite prepared to put that particular question to the test.
    “Not on me,” Poppy joked. “I actually work upstairs. I’ve always been curious about this place, so I thought I’d stop by. Oh, I’m sorry—I’m being so rude. The name is Veronica. Veronica Maxwell. It’s lovely to meet you.”
    She extended a hand. The receptionist gave it a wary glance before accepting it.
    “You know, now that I think about it, I do have some family jewelry that might be worth looking at. If I wanted to make an appointment, who would I be seeing?”
    The receptionist handed her a card. “Matthew Gibbons is our client services specialist. All initial consultations go through him. I’d be happy to set