The Portugal Sapphire (An Ainsley Walker Gemstone Travel Mystery): An Ainsley Walker Gemstone Travel Mystery, #5

CHAPTER ONE

When Ainsley Walker first arrived at the warehouse for her interview, she wondered if she had the wrong address.

A corrugated aluminum door, wide enough to accommodate a semi-truck, was rolled down and clamped tightly. Through a high window, Ainsley glimpsed industrial caged lights hanging from the ceiling. There was no sign, no logo, no marking of any type. Only a street number on the curb. It matched the one she’d scrawled in her notebook the day before.

Then Ainsley paused as she caught an odd scent floating across the air. She inhaled deeply, trying to recognize it—soft and warm, vaguely woody. It was pleasant and made her think of red wine.

Next to the corrugated garage was a small black service door. That was the entrance. Clearing her throat, Ainsley strode over and rapped on it with her knuckles. She listened to the echo faded away. After a moment, Ainsley knocked again.

She heard the click-clack of heels on the floor inside. Then the door swung open. A mild woman dressed in a black blazer and gray pencil skirt was in the frame.

Her eyes gave the visitor a friendly once-over. Can I help you?

I have an appointment with Joaquim, Ainsley replied. Is this the right place?

The woman smiled. You must be Ainsley Walker. I’m Fatima. Welcome.

They shook hands diplomatically. Then she led Ainsley inside. It was a small lobby with three simple chairs and a water cooler. Joaquim isn’t quite ready for you yet, she said. Please wait here.

Fatima left the anteroom, and Ainsley quickly checked her clothing. That morning, she’d agonized over her outfit for the longest time, finally settling upon a red silken sleeveless blouse, a white bolero jacket, a new pair of jeans, and beautifully embossed boots. It gave the correct impression of style mixed with competence.

On her finger was a small sapphire ring, a long-ago deal that she’d never regretted. On her wrist was a wristwatch that her bank account had always regretted. And on her mind were many questions.

Yesterday, Ainsley had received a phone call out of the blue, the way she got most of her business. It’d been a male voice, identifying himself only as Joaquim. He’d seen her advertisement, he’d said, and was hoping that she had time the next morning to discuss an assignment. He’d had an odd accent.

Ainsley had nearly leapt to the ceiling. Yes, she had time.

After all, it’d been three months since her last case had concluded. She’d exhausted most of her savings and had fallen two months behind in her rent. Then she’d spent three hundred dollars on the ad—a chunk of change that she was beginning to think might’ve been better used elsewhere.

In short, she really needed this case. To prove to herself, and others, that gemstone detective work was a viable career path.

Ainsley nervously paced the lobby, then noticed the artwork hanging on the wall. It was a picture of a grove of trees in a bucolic countryside. She squinted. The trees had been heavily stripped of their bark. That was odd.

Next to it hung a sketch of an old ship. She studied it closely: an exploratory vessel with stylishly billowing sails, blue waves chopping against its curved hull. Underneath, in loopy cursive, the artist had written Caravel, 1490. Whoever Joaquim was, he seemed like a man with a sense of adventure.

The door opened. Ainsley turned. It was Fatima again, in her black blazer and gray pencil skirt, an unreadable expression on her face.

We’re sorry for the wait, she said.

No problem.

Joaquim is ready for you now. This way.

Ainsley followed her through the second door. She found herself moving through a warehouse filled with tall stacks of what seemed to be plywood wrapped in plastic.

Try not to touch or bump anything, said Fatima. These stacks can fall easily.

What do you make here?

A man in a white hardhat drove a small yellow forklift past them. He stopped the vehicle, shoved its two arms underneath a pallet, then reversed, pulling out the stack, turned, and continued rolling out of sight.

We don’t make anything, said the woman. We import.

Import what?

Cork.

Now it made sense. These were tall stacks of corkboard, which was so light it would fall over easily. This also explained the mysterious woody scent that she’d noticed even outside.

Where do you import the cork from? she asked.

Fatima smiled mysteriously. You have a lot of questions, Miss Walker.

And not a lot of answers, Ainsley replied. I don’t know anything about this assignment.

Joaquim can be evasive.

Is there anything important to know before I meet him?

She shrugged. He is the president of the company. He’s young. He’s successful.

What should I say to him?

Well, replied the woman, looking Ainsley up and down, you probably won’t have to say much at all.

At the rear of the warehouse, Fatima knocked at a plain office door. On the wall next to the door was a picture of an extremely handsome soccer player, wearing a red national jersey, booting the ball. Zero percent body fat, one hundred percent gorgeous.

I’m guessing this is his favorite sport, said Ainsley, nodding at the photo.

Absolutely, Fatima answered, but don’t mention soccer unless you want to be here all day. One more question—do you speak Spanish?

Yes.

Don’t mention that either.

Why?

Trust me. Fatima pressed her ear against the door. Okay, he’s off the phone.

She turned the doorknob and opened the door. Ainsley took a deep breath and stepped inside.

CHAPTER TWO

It was a plain room, with brown furniture, a simple sofa, and a wooden desk. On the wall was a flag with two red and green stripes, an odd spherical insignia buried in the center.

Behind the desk, typing at his laptop, was a man.

A very good-looking man.

At first glance, he seemed to be about Ainsley’s age. A head of thick brown hair, defined biceps, chest stretching his collared shirt just enough. He was facing sideways and didn’t acknowledge her.

Joaquim? she said.

Welcome, please sit down, he said, without glancing up. Then he added: Fatima, could you get some coffee for us?

The assistant nodded and left the room. Ainsley lowered herself onto the visitor’s chair and studied him while he worked. His brown eyes were firmly focused on his screen. His eyes were intelligent and a little mischievous.

Fatima returned, bearing two paper cups, the aroma of coffee filling the room.

My espresso maker is broken, he said, so I hope drip coffee is acceptable.

It’s fine, she croaked.

Joauqim’s eyes flicked up. Are you feeling okay?

Ainsley coughed. I had a frog in my throat.

He reached into a drawer and dumped sugar packets, creamers, and wooden stirrers onto the desk. Please, feel free.

Thank you, she said. She leaned forward and took a packet of sugar and poured it into her coffee and swirled it with a stirrer.

Finally he closed his laptop and sighed. I’m sorry for the condition of my office, but I don’t spend a lot of time here. Usually I’m either on the floor, or out travelling.

She strained her ears, listening to his accent. There was a slight hint of something, but she couldn’t place it.

Me too, said Ainsley. It’s one of the job requirements of a gemstone detective.

Is confidentiality another? he asked.

She nodded. Absolutely.

That’s good, he said, because my family is in a very sensitive situation.

I’m listening.

Can you tell what kind of accent I have? A small smirk appeared on his lips as his fingers ripped open a sugar packet. His eyes stayed fixed on Ainsley as he took her stirrer and used it.

Kind of.

I’ll give you three guesses.

Joaquim didn’t seem to be in any rush to get to the assignment. And, in fact, Ainsley had been trying to place his accent, but it’d been difficult. He sounded vaguely Slavic.

She sipped her coffee. You are … Russian.

He shook his head. No.

Polish?

Sorry.

Latvian? Lithuanian? Estonian?

You’re up to five now.

Then just tell me.

His brown eyes met her own for the first time. I’m from Portugal.

Of course, she replied. I should’ve guessed.

That was a lie. Ainsley never would’ve guessed that. What little she knew about the Portuguese accent came from Brazil, but Portugal was an ocean away and centuries removed from its former colony.

The truth, he explained, is that I was raised mostly here in the States, but my family is Portuguese, and I spent every summer over there. Now I go almost every month for business. He paused. Do you know anything about Portugal?

Ainsley mentally scraped her brain, seeking something, anything, to show some expertise. She remembered that it had been the home of some of the famous conquistadores during the age of exploration, but that had been five hundred years ago. Since then, nothing. The western piece of the Iberian peninsula seemed to have floated off into obscurity.

I’m drawing a blank, she admitted.

She braced for the worst, but to her surprise, Joaquim smiled. Good. It’s better that way.

It is?