Free Statue of Limitations by Tamar Myers Page A

electricity that traveled well beyond the length of my arm. If Irena noticed the spark between us, she didn’t let on.
    â€œIs it always this humid?” she demanded.
    I slipped out of Nick’s grasp and opened the door for them. “Not always, dear. If a low front stalls along the coast, it can get a great deal more humid.”
    She didn’t say anything else until we were seated and it was time to give our drink orders. “A dirty martini,” she snapped to the waitress. “Vodka. Three olives. And it better be cold.”
    Even Nick blushed with embarrassment. Yet when he ordered his beer, he insisted that the foam head be no less than a quarter inch thick, and no more than an inch.
    I ordered a sweet tea (ice tea with tons of sugar, for those of you who live north of the Line). This, not coffee, is the liquid that keeps the South running. There are folks who firmly believe that in the absence of the right blood type, sweet tea may be used for transfusions.
    The Papadopouluses were a little less sure of themselves when it came to ordering from the lunch menu. After driving our waitress, a sweet young girl from Savannah, to the brink of madness, they both decided to begin their meal with chilled gazpacho soup, to be followed by poachedmussels in white wine and garlic sauce. Irena selected the sautéed grouper glazed with whole mustard as her entrée, and Nick finally decided on the sautéed duck breast with plum glaze and mashed sweet potatoes. Much to my surprise, neither of them ordered the roast rack of lamb.
    Yours truly had only the jumbo lump crab cakes, served over a sauté of corn, okra, and roasted yellow squash. I intended to save some room in my tiny tummy for the establishment’s to-die-for crème brûlée.
    As a matter of course we were all served a delightful sourdough bread, in which Nick seemed to take a special interest. He broke off a bite-size piece and smelled it, before rolling it into a little ball, which he popped in his mouth. His smile was a pretty good indication that he approved of the selection. That, and the fact that he hogged most of the loaf.
    â€œSo, tell me about yourselves,” I said casually when the meal was well under way.
    Irena, who was gorging on her grouper, dropped her fork. “Like what?”
    â€œWell, what do you do for a living?” It is, I believe, the most frequently asked question in America, and therefore entirely safe.
    â€œYou already know that my husband is a stock market phenomenon.” The fork was not only backin Irena’s hand, but on the way to her mouth. It was soon apparent that the woman had no compunctions about chewing and chatting at the same time.
    â€œBut what about you, dear? Are you employed outside the home?”
    Irena stabbed at her fish. “I’m a gem buyer.”
    â€œDiamonds?”
    â€œYes, of course.”
    I glanced at my engagement ring. Medieval theologians used to argue about how many angels could fit on the head of a pin. Well, only half of a very small angel could fit on the only diamond Greg could afford on his policeman’s salary. And now that he was a shrimper—well, if I wanted to upgrade my stone, I’d have to pay for it myself.
    â€œWhat does a good diamond go for these days? I know one has to take into account the four C’s, but I just want a ballpark figure.”
    The skunk on her head came alive as she recoiled in horror. “I don’t handle CZ. My gems are the real thing.”
    â€œI meant cut, clarity, carat, and color. Those are the four C’s, aren’t they?”
    â€œUh—certainly. But lately I’ve been dealing mostly with secondary gems. You know, emeralds, rubies, sapphires. That sort of thing.”
    â€œHow interesting. I’ve never met a gem buyerbefore. Does this mean you have to do a lot of traveling?”
    She nodded. “Constantly. It’s getting to the point where I’m going to