A Small Death in the Great Glen by A. D. Scott

it was his mother’s he had no doubt. His grandmother had worn it before her, and her mother before that. It was a family tradition that the cross was passed down to the first daughter of each generation. His mother had never been without it. In spite of its value, she had worn it every day concealed under her clothing.
    Peter felt faint. “A moment, my love.” He went back inside and hurriedly asked Mr. Silverstein to put the cross aside for him.
    â€œYou all right, my boy?”
    â€œMaybe a touch of fever or something.”
    The old man accepted the lie.

    Peter walked the short distance from the jeweler’s to the Station Hotel in a complete daze. Chiara, holding his arm, chattered away like an excited sparrow. Business acquaintances and friends smiled as the couple made their way through to the dining room.
    â€œAlmost a ritual, this, eh? We seem to see you every week.”
    â€œIt is,” Peter replied. His engineering company relied on contacts and, more important, council contracts. The man speaking to him, Mr. Grieg from the town council, was just such aperson to cultivate. Peter had to swallow his dislike of Grieg’s self-important, hail-fellow-well-met handshake.
    â€œDid you receive the wedding invitation, Mr. Grieg?” Chiara too knew the game.
    â€œWouldn’t miss it for the world.”
    They were shown to a table. Peter dropped into the chair, trying to maintain his composure. He glanced at the menu, knew he couldn’t eat, the very thought of food . . . He put it down to delayed shock.
    â€œI think my stomach has had too much haggis.”
    â€œYou never eat haggis,” Chiara replied. She saw that he was even paler than his usual white-blond-hair, pale-blue-eyes paleness.
    â€œOh, right. Are you catching something? Do you want to go home?”
    Gino was in the kitchen when they returned. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œHis stomach, Papa.”
    â€œItalians, we never get upset stomachs.” Gino smiled. Then, looking again at his future son-in-law, seeing his carefully disguised distress, he fetched some water.
    â€œThank you. And perhaps a walk?” Peter asked the older man. “Fresh air is good for me.”
    On their way to the jeweler’s, Peter explained.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œAbsolutely certain. I revered that necklace as a child. I know every stone in it. I remember the stories—the diamond that is not as good as the others because when it fell out and was lost, my father couldn’t afford another of the same quality.”
    He told Gino that when his father could afford to replace it with a better diamond his mother had refused, saying that it would remind them of harder times, now long gone. “My mother told me the history of the heirloom, showed me the pictures of her mother and also her grandmother wearing it. It came inturn to the eldest daughter of each generation, from mother to daughter.”
    Saturday being a half day, the shop was shuttered, and as they waited for an answer to the bell, Gino was still struggling to make sense of the story. How on earth could this Polish family necklace have ended up here, out of all the places in a still shattered Europe, here in this small Highland town where Peter had made his home? Mr. Silverstein had the same problem.
    â€œThis crucifix is my mother’s.” Peter was adamant.
    â€œI believe you. Please, your word is enough for me.” Mr. Silverstein had to sit down. “You know, when he came into my shop, I was suspicious. He said it was his mother’s, but now he had no family. He said he needed the money to start his new life and couldn’t get a good price in Tallinn. I believed him.” Mr. Silverstein was deeply embarrassed. “So now we must find this sailor, find out how he got your mother’s jewelry. I will help all I can.”
    Peter felt betrayed. He had done everything he could to help the missing sailor,