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half feet.
    â€œHave a seat.” He nodded toward the chair that was butted up against the side of his desk. The chair was tooclose to him, but there was nothing he could do about it. He would have rather put her on the other side of the desk directly opposite him to gain more breathing room.
    He watched her as she seemed to drift onto the chair rather than just sit down. She never broke eye contact, which he found a little unsettling. It seemed as if she were putting him on his guard instead of the other way around.
    The best con artists had the same trait. It made them seem more trustworthy. As far as he was concerned, the woman wasn’t out of the woods just yet.
    Clearing his throat, he reminded himself that he was first, foremost and single-mindedly a detective. It was time he began acting like one. “Do you have any proof that the necklace—”
    â€œCameo,” she corrected.
    â€œCameo,” he echoed with a short nod of his head as his irritation mounted. James began again. “Do you have any proof that the ‘cameo’ is yours?”
    â€œYou mean like a sales receipt?” She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. That would have been impolite.
    â€œThat would be good.” The words were out before he remembered that she had said the cameo had once belonged to a family ancestor. James felt like an idiot and he was none too happy about it.
    Especially when he watched the smile she was attempting to keep from her lips creeping out along her mouth anyway. “It would also be impossible. It was my great-great-great—”
    â€œTimes seven, yes, I remember now.”
    She was digging into her purse. For a handkerchief to dab delicately at the corners of her eyes? he wondered, a wave of cynicism getting the better of him.
    But it wasn’t a handkerchief. The cool Southern belle with the drop-dead legs pulled a photograph out of her purse. When she held it up for him, he saw a woman with a small girl. Though the clothes appeared somewhat out of date, he saw that the woman in the photograph was the same one sitting beside his desk. Around her neck was the cameo he’d picked up from the sidewalk.
    â€œThat your daughter?” he asked, taking the photograph from her. When she laughed, he looked up at her sharply.
    â€œNo, that’s me. The little girl,” she prompted when he gave her a quizzical look. “The woman wearing the cameo is my mother.”
    â€œShe looks just like you,” he couldn’t help commenting. He handed the photograph back to her.
    â€œShe did.” Unable to help herself, Constance lightly ran her fingertip along her mother’s image. Time didn’t help. She still missed her like crazy. “She’s gone now.”
    That’s right, he remembered. She’d said as much to him on the phone. He felt a tiny pinprick of guilt for thinking it was a ploy to get him to lower his guard. The woman at his desk looked genuinely sad as she spoke about her mother.
    Uncomfortable in the face of her sorrow, James cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”
    Constance inclined her head. “Everyone who ever knew her was sorry.” And that had added up to a great many people. Her mother had friends everywhere. It made Constance proud.
    She roused herself before the sorrow could pull her under. “And they were furious when her things were stolen.” Uncle Bob had put men on it immediately. Everything was recovered within twenty-four hours—except for the cameo. It was almost as if the cameo needed to be set free for a time. There were too many strange things in the world for her to laugh away the thought when it had occurred to her. But she was glad to have the piece back. “There was a robbery at the house the day of the funeral,” she explained.
    He didn’t believe in coincidence. Someone had to have known the house would be empty because of the funeral. “Inside job.”
    He