Consulting

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Peridot said, unbuttoning his jacket with practiced calm.

As we sat down, I recalled how my alliance with Peridot began. Kismet, as they say in the trade. We became friends in 1987 when I was a new gemology instructor, and he was finishing a sabbatical before returning to his university post in Los Angeles. Over the years, our bond grew through shared interests: rare minerals and technology—from dial-up bulletin boards to modern digital forensics.

When the market took a downturn and I left teaching to write and lecture independently, people insisted on calling me a "consultant." I've always loathed the term. A consultant rarely shares the client’s risk. I preferred to think of myself as an educator who brought the wonder of the natural world to light.

And tonight, the light was decidedly interrogation-grade.

My attention snapped back to the table as Peppe concluded the pleasantries. Beside him, Leyland reached into his breast pocket and drew out a folded paper parcel, setting it precisely in the center of the white tablecloth.

Peridot didn’t hesitate. “Gentlemen, Dr. Kampf at the Natural History Museum in Los Angeles urgently requested our arrival in Florence. He claims a historic 122-carat peridot from St. John’s Island was ‘borrowed’ from their vault without board approval. Care to enlighten us?”

Leyland remained unruffled. “As an exhibitor, Mr. Peridot, my gallery hosts annual private sales. To elevate the prestige of the fine art, we arrange temporary loans of world-class gemstones from institutional vaults. It’s entirely symbiotic.”

With steady hands, Leyland unfolded the parcel paper. Under the warm chandelier light, a magnificent, cushion-cut yellowish-green stone glowed against the white background.

“May I?” Peridot asked, reaching toward his pocket for his loupe.

“Before you bother, cousin,” Dee Davies piped up, leaning back with a grin, “Mr. Leyland isn't the only one holding a masterpiece tonight.”

Professor Rossi sighed and reached into his own coat. “I suspect you mean this.” He produced a second parcel, identical to the first. “Dr. Kampf routed the museum specimen directly to my curatorial office at the Uffizi. An academic loan, of course—to ensure the piece moved under cultural exhibition protocols rather than commercial import red tape.”

Two parcels. Two stones, identical in cut, color, and astonishing size.

Peridot glanced at me. “Adamas, would you examine Peppe’s stone while I look at Mr. Leyland’s?”

“With pleasure,” I said, clicking on my penlight.

Given Davies’ smirking presence, I immediately suspected an assembled stone—a classic triplet using colorless synthetic spinel caps sandwiching an emerald-green cement layer to mimic peridot. I directed a narrow beam of light through the girdle plane. In an assembled triplet, the profile should instantly give the game away: colorless sections sandwiching a razor-thin line of green dye.

Nothing. The color remained uniform, solid, and deep straight through the stone’s belly.

I hesitated, the gears grinding to a halt. Synthetic spinel in peridot-green is notoriously difficult to produce, yet here was a stone showing no cement plane, no visible separation, and no telltale bubble clusters.

I looked up and met Peridot’s steady gaze.

“Remember, Adamas,” Peridot murmured, not looking up from his own stone. “Innocent until proven guilty. Natural until proven synthetic. You have an eye for color, but color is an illusionist. Don’t let Davies' presence infect your deductions. What do the facets tell you?”

. . . to be continued.