The Mystery of the Nourdon Blue

By Amanda Brenner

Despite rumors of its deadly curse and doubts of the stone’s very existence, Andrew Weberley risks his life and all he holds dear to search the steamy jungles of Guatemala for the fabulous sapphire known as the Nourdon Blue.

After months without word from her father, Felicia Weberley hires Sid Langdon to find him. Sid attempts to track the stone, believing it will lead him to Weberley. He encounters the murky world of stolen artifacts when all leads converge on a pawn shop in Seattle’s Chinatown, and a delusional pawnbroker who trades in antiquities while financing a search for the ultimate prize—the Nourdon Blue.

The Mystery of the Nourdon Blue is the story of a soul-searing and destructive obsession as it ripples through the lives of those it touches.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda Brenner
• Release date: Jul 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465995476

Amanda Brenner

Amanda Brenner is a native Midwesterner who has traveled extensively throughout the United States and now lives quietly with her husband and an assortment of wildlife visitors to their urban home.  Her interest in writing began at an early age when westerns were popular attractions at the local theater.  It seemed only natural that her first novel, Trail of Vengeance, should be in that genre.  After finishing a second western, Shadow of the Rope, she began to explore a new direction and completed three contemporary mysteries involving private investigator Sid Langdon, a self-doubting magnet for offbeat clients and hapless scenarios, the latest being The Mystery of the Nourdon Blue.  Amanda enjoys learning from the books she reads, a characteristic reflected in the research she includes in her own works. Thank you for your time.  

Book preview

The Mystery of the Nourdon Blue

by

Amanda Brenner

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Amanda Brenner at Smashwords

Copyright date: 3/21/05

Library of Congress

Reference number TXu1-229-843

First published June, 2011.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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The Mystery of the Nourdon Blue is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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PROLOGUE

The Nourdon Blue is an exquisite cabochon sapphire of exceptional fire and brilliance. Mined in the fabled Kashmir region of India in the early part of the nineteenth century, the stone was eventually cut to a total weight of 68.02 Carats and set in a golden pendant surrounded by a ring of perfectly matched pearls. The ancients believed the sapphire to be the most sacred of all gemstones and a remedy for many ailments. Perhaps it was. But one ailment immune to its healing powers was a sickness common among those who, once having learned of the stone’s existence, were determined to possess it; they were beyond help, and each in turn succumbed, racked by a disease which has plagued mankind since the garden of Eden: the soul-searing ravages of greed.

Chapter 1

Somewhere in the hell of a Guatemalan jungle, Noubo Torre sat amidst the ruins of an ancient temple at the site of a long forgotten civilization and examined the thing in his hands. He turned it over repeatedly, examining its facets in the sunlight; its deep blue fire danced in his eyes. He was not an educated man, and he knew nothing of the value or the history of the stone he was holding, but it must be what he had been sent to find. It was as it had been described to him when he had been told to obtain it at any cost.

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On the second floor of an office building in downtown Seattle, Felicia Weberley hesitated before the door and looked uncertainly at the elegant black inscription on the frosted glass panel: Sidney Langdon, Private Investigator. She heard Michelle’s voice behind her, prompting impatiently, Well, go on in. He’s expecting you.

Michelle had involved her employer in an attempt to resolve the mystery that would not give her friend peace, and Felicia knew the time to ponder the wisdom of consulting a private detective had long since passed. Much as her courage ebbed while she stood there staring at the stark lettering that represented the latest stage in her family’s odyssey, Felicia knew she had reached a point where there was simply nothing else she could do. She needed help, indeed had asked for it, and it was simply too late to back out now. She grasped the doorknob and hesitated yet again; she finally took a deep breath, turned the knob, and entered the office.

Mr. Langdon? she inquired of the man watching her from behind the desk by the window. He had heard his secretary’s admonition and saw Felicia’s shadow hovering outside his door, obviously contemplating her decision to consult him; he wondered how long it would take her and how he would fill the time reserved for her appointment if she chose to cancel. Now he stood and smiled at her. Call me Sid, he said amiably, certain Michelle was listening through the still open door. I assume you are Miss Weberley. May I call you Felicia? As he spoke, his hand swept the air toward a heavily upholstered wing chair opposite his own at the gleaming dark cherry desk. Felicia closed the door, approached the chair he had indicated and sat down, tightly clutching her purse in her lap, all the while observing the detective she proposed to engage.

He was not a young man, but not old either, his brown hair just tinged with gray. He wore a dark blue lightweight wool suit, appropriate for the early spring temperatures and well tailored, at least as far as she could tell when compared with those that she remembered in her father’s wardrobe. His crisp blue shirt carried a faint stripe, its collar starched and sharply creased; his gray silk tie bore a small pattern she couldn’t quite make out. When he stood to greet her, he was slightly taller than she was, with what she thought would probably be considered a medium build; she thought him nice looking, although she would not have called him handsome.

Then she remembered his question and stammered, clearly embarrassed, Oh, yes…yes, of course. Thank you…Sid.

He took his seat again and made himself comfortable. He had cleared the top of his desk in anticipation of her visit; the only things before him were a yellow legal pad and the thick black Mont Blanc ink pen he favored. He was still smiling, although now with an amused look on his face.

Michelle has told me something of your situation, Felicia, he said, and I believe it concerns your father; but I wonder if you’d mind explaining it yourself, in your own words, from the beginning. Just what is this about, and why do you believe I may be able to help you?

In spite of her determination to present her case as factually and unemotionally as possible, and in spite of the hours she had spent practicing all she planned to tell him, tears stubbornly welled in her eyes and she had to blink them back before she was able to speak. The reaction had been a regular occurrence in the past few weeks, one she was unable to control; it was the result, she supposed, of the concern and uncertainty that had caused her, finally, to consider the services of a private detective. It was a final recourse; she had nowhere else to turn. She nervously took a deep breath and exhaled slowly; once she felt she could speak with a steady voice, she began her story.

"I last saw my father, Andrew Weberley, three years ago. We lived in Philadelphia at the time; my mother is still there. My father was a unique man, Sid; if you’d known him, you’d understand. He had a need to live his life on his own terms, and a wanderlust that caused him to be gone for long periods of time in search of classical antiquities for the company he founded and the gallery he managed.

After one of his trips, he simply never came back; that part is hard to explain, yet perhaps it’s understandable to anyone who knew him, because we kept in touch, at least after a fashion. He was traveling a great deal, something we could only surmise through the cards he continued to send to my mother and me on special occasions; they were postmarked from all over the world, yet the only address we ever had was a post office box in San Antonio, Texas. His mail must have been forwarded, she said, "because in his cards he would include notes mentioning the things we’d told him. For instance, he agreed when my mother hired a manager for the company; after I graduated, I worked there for a time.

A year ago, I came to Seattle to work in my uncle’s title company. I wrote to my father, in care of the San Antonio post office, telling him of my decision and giving him my new address.

The girl paused again and absentmindedly twirled a pearl ring on her finger, and then she continued with her story. Last Christmas was the first time since I can remember that neither my mother nor I received any communication at all from my father. Nothing. My birthday was two months ago; again it came and went with no word from him. Mr. Lang…Sid…something is very wrong. If I could make you understand him—us—you’d see how very wrong this is. If my father were able to communicate with us, I’m sure he would have; we always received the most beautiful cards on special occasions and he would never have neglected my birthday—never. I have no idea where he is now, but he must be very ill or…, her voice trailed off, unable to acknowledge the alternative she didn’t want to believe, as if by refusing to acknowledge it she could somehow prevent its being true.

Felicia stopped again to compose herself. She was still clinging to her purse, holding it so tightly her perspiring hands left damp stains on the brown leather.

Finally, she blurted out her reason for coming to see him. "You have to find him, Sid…please…you have to. We have to know what’s happened to him. We’ve been frantic with worry, wondering if he’s sick or hurt somewhere. It was bad enough when we had to endure months of silence spanning the stretch from one holiday, anniversary, or birthday to another with no word. Then, just when we began to think we couldn’t bear it any longer, a card would arrive, always with no mention of where he was, what he was doing, or how long he would be gone. He would invariably tell us he missed us, and loved us, and would see us soon, but…," her voice faltered.

Anyway, it never happened; he may have meant it when he said it, and yet it never happened, and his absence simply went on, along with the interminable waiting. However, this time is different. This time we know—feel—that something must be horribly wrong. It’s been too long. Even given the pattern he’d followed in the past, this is worse. We know—we just know, Sid—that he would contact us if he could, and that he would have by now if it were at all possible, we’re certain of that. We don’t know what to do, but we’re frantic to do something. We have to know what’s wrong. We feel abandoned; and yet we know that is something my father would never, ever, do. Please help us.

Fear, agony, and desperation echoed in every word as she leaned forward and looked at the detective, intently searching his face as if just looking at him would surely make him understand everything she’d told him and why he had to help her.

All during her rambling, at times almost incoherent, narration, Sid had sat back, immobile, and simply listened to every word, watched every movement. What he saw was a young woman in her mid to late twenties, about five foot four, attractive if rather plain looking, with short blondish hair and sad looking blue eyes. The dark gray suit she wore was not new and strangely out of place for April, as if she had dressed by rote, with no attention paid to its appropriateness for the season. In addition, she had entered his office carrying a large brown leather handbag with a long strap, also rather plain looking and out of place, but perhaps chosen for utility rather than fashion, and she had clung to it fiercely all the while she spoke. What was in it? Her hands fidgeted on her purse and her eyes often darted furtively about the room, bouncing off the window, the sofa against the wall, the clock above it, as if she were trying to remember all she had apparently rehearsed telling him, words that now spilled out with a rush like water from a burst dam.

He was beginning to get a familiar feeling; actually it was kind of a sinking sensation in his stomach, like the end of a fast ride on an elevator when you feel like you left your insides on the ground floor, the kind that usually meant he was about to become involved in a losing proposition. Pushing it aside with a great deal of effort, he managed to ask gently, Felicia, where was your father the last time you heard from him?

Her train of concentration broken, she looked at him blankly, needing to coordinate her thoughts before replying. My mother received a card on their wedding anniversary…last September, she told him. It was postmarked somewhere in Mexico.

I see, he said, absorbing and processing the information. Somewhere in Mexico. That’s just great, he thought; it really narrows it down.

And have you filed a missing person report with the police? Please say yes.

Yes, we did, several weeks ago; but you know that’s just procedure, she said impatiently. They won’t look for him, certainly not in another country; that’s why I came to you. Well, at least he’s in the system.

I suppose that’s true, he admitted. But tell me, have you any idea at all as to what your father may have been doing in Mexico? And could that have been his real destination, or was he just passing through en route to someplace else? If so, have you any idea as to where that someplace else may have been, where he may in fact have been headed?

Not really, she said, almost to herself. You must understand, my father’s previous expeditions were well planned and carefully documented; he kept journals to record every move he made and everyone he dealt with; and he relied on experienced agencies he trusted to handle his travel arrangements and to secure any additional personnel and equipment he might need. His comings and goings were never secret. Why should they be? He had nothing to hide. Her voice faded as she recounted what she had just said.

At least, she continued, that’s the way it was until his virtual disappearance three years ago, before his movements became secretive. And now, with no further communication after his last expedition, that is, the last one we knew about, in Mexico, we naturally tried to track him through the people he’d worked with in the past. If anyone could put their finger on his whereabouts, trace him through his travels, we thought they could; but this time they were unable to help us. They checked their records and the arrangements they’d made for him in an attempt to trace his movements, but this time the trail went cold. Once the dig was over and the artifacts fully accounted for, my father simply left without saying anything to any of them regarding his plans. For the first time he began to handle his own arrangements; no one had a clue as to his whereabouts or intentions. He simply vanished…, she said, her voice again fading.

Then, her pained eyes moist with the tears she’d been holding back, she looked at him and said slowly, Sid, you asked me if I knew what he was doing in Mexico, and I said not really; but that’s only partially true. The truth is I can think of one thing that would have taken him there, or anywhere else in the world for that matter, if he thought that whatever information he was acting on was reliable. The only thing I can think of, the only thing I’ve always felt he might spend his life searching for, even though I’ve always thought it a pipe dream, is the Nourdon Blue.

Sid’s attention snapped into focus as his eyes narrowed at the unfamiliar, albeit intriguing, term. The Nourdon Blue? he repeated. I don’t understand. Just what is the Nourdon Blue?

As far as I’m concerned, it’s a fantasy, a delusion, a fairy tale, she told him. You see, when I was a small child, my father used to tell me a story he claimed had been passed down from his own father; it was one of many stories, actually, with any number of variations, but it was basically a tale recounting the adventures of a Legionnaire in Turkey during the Crimean War. The core of the story always concerned a fabulous sapphire known as the Nourdon Blue, supposedly the property of Sir Henry Nourdon, a wealthy merchant in Constantinople during the chaos of the war there in 1854. According to the story, the stone was spirited out of the country by a nameless mercenary serving with the French Foreign Legion. As with all stories of such gems, this one came with a legend…and a curse. The stone was believed to be an omen of good fortune as long as it remained shielded from the outside world; but, according to the story, it was also the source of a deadly fate should it ever see the light of day in the hands of its possessor. As the years went by, rumors of the stone’s shadowy reappearance would crop up from time to time, always accompanied by tales of tragedy involving any number of supposedly successive owners.

She paused, as if reliving those earlier times. The story, and my father’s many embellishments, naturally fascinated me as a child and I never tired of hearing it, but as I grew older I came to dismiss it as nothing more than a bedtime tale. However, my father was a dreamer, Sid; I think he suspected his great-grandfather was the real mercenary in the story and that the stone did in fact exist. I remember he always said that one day he’d find it; and I think it’s the kind of thing he would have tried to find, no matter where the search took him or, she added wistfully, what it cost.

That sinking feeling in Sid’s stomach was getting stronger by the minute. He knew where this was heading and he didn’t like it, not at all. His wanted off the hook on which he definitely felt he was hanging. On the one hand, his often-reliable gut told him this would be a pro bono case, and he was never in the mood to work for nothing. On the other hand, the girl had come to him on his secretary’s recommendation. If he refused this case, that same unhappy instinct told him Michelle would put an end to his happy home away from home, a situation he was reluctant to contemplate.

Finally, trying his best to be tactful, and aware the trait was not his forte, he said carefully, Felicia, I must tell you this is very little to go on. As much as I would like to help you, I have no idea just what it is I would be looking for or where to start, and I must admit to a certain reluctance to become involved in a situation where success seems…well, he paused, searching for the right phrase, rather remote.

The girl caved like a spent balloon. I understand, she said softly. "I was afraid you might feel that way; I can’t really say I blame you. It all sounds pretty preposterous, even to me. It’s just that I can think of nothing else that would account for what’s happened, and yet I have no proof beyond my