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would make it so.
    Gwen shook her head. “He says he trusts his judgment when it comes to stamps, that he doesn’t know anything else as well.”
    â€œThis is it? This is all he has for retirement?”
    â€œHad,” Gwen said aridly. “There’s maybe a million left at this point.”
    Joss spun and reached for the phone. “I’m calling the cops.”
    â€œNo!” Gwen’s tone of command was so absolute, it stopped her dead. “That’s the one thing we absolutely can’t do right now.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about? There’s millions of dollars in property missing. We’ve got to do something.”
    â€œBut not that,” Gwen emphasized.
    â€œWhy not?” Joss glared at her, inches away.
    â€œAll an investment dealer like Grampa has is his reputation. He’s still got about twenty-five live accounts right now waiting to be closed out, some of them with millions in holdings. And every one of them has a clause in their contract that if he sells their stamps below current catalog price, he’ll have to make up the difference.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo, if they hear about the theft and decide they don’t trust him anymore, they may want out immediately. If he has to sell in a rush instead of at the right time, and if buyers know he’s hurting, he’ll definitely have to sell below catalog.” Gwen swallowed. “And there goes the other million.”
    Gone. All gone. It made her shiver. They were his pride and joy, part of what made the philately business vibrant to him. The loss was unimaginable.
    She leafed through one of the store inventory albums, staring at the empty squares. A fifteen-cent stamp showing Columbus’s landing, worth maybe three thousand dollars. An 1847 Benjamin Franklin stamp worth six. Why bother, she wondered suddenly. The store inventory stamps were chump change compared to the major issues. Gwen chewed on the inside of her lip. Then again, the importantstamps would be difficult to unload immediately; there would be questions. The inventory stamps would provide a thief with money in the meantime.
    A thief who knew how the world of fine collectibles worked.
    â€œJerry,” Gwen said aloud.
    â€œJerry?”
    â€œIt couldn’t have been anybody else. The alarms weren’t tampered with, the security company doesn’t have any record of the slightest glitch. It had to be him.” Gwen rose to inspect the safe. “Nobody appears to have messed with this, but then I doubt he was an expert safecracker. Somehow I see Jerry as taking an easier route.” She turned to lean against the bookshelf full of reference catalogs. “Tell me he didn’t cook up some reason to get you to give him the key and combination.”
    Joss’s eyes flashed. “Give me a break. I left them right here, safe and sound.”
    â€œHere?” She resisted the urge to rant at Joss’s carelessness. “I told you to keep them safe. Where did you put them?”
    â€œIn the desk drawer.” Joss raised her chin. “I locked it.”
    A lock any self-respecting toddler could break.
    â€œI didn’t want to lose them. I figured this would be the only place I’d need them so I might as well leave them close by.” She stared at Gwen. “You don’t know it was Jerry.”
    It wasn’t Jerry Joss was defending, Gwen knew. Joss didn’t want to think it was Jerry because she didn’t want to think she was at fault for the theft. But she wasn’t at fault. Gwen, in the final analysis, had made the decision to hire him. Gwen had been the one in such a hurry to get out of town that she’d left Joss in charge of the store and the safe.
    If anyone was at fault, it was she.
    The key and combination lay in the paper-clip compartment of the drawer, Gwen saw, but it didn’t mean a thing if Jerry were as quick as she thought. “Was he ever alone in