The second was her expensive handbag.
The third was the woman's expression when she was told she didn't belong inside the store.
It was 2:17 on a beautiful Thursday afternoon in Beverly Hills, California, and the diamond showroom of Aurelle Fine Jewelry was filled with the quiet elegance of a business that catered to people who rarely asked how much anything cost. Sunlight streamed through towering glass doors, illuminating polished white marble floors, cream-colored walls, and curved display counters holding diamonds worth more than many California homes.
A soft instrumental melody drifted from hidden speakers. White orchids stood in enormous ceramic vases, and two sales associates in tailored black suits were assisting wealthy customers near the bridal collection.
Then Diana Mitchell walked through the entrance.
She was forty-two years old, extraordinarily beautiful, with flawless deep-brown skin, a tall, statuesque figure, elegant facial features, and sleek shoulder-length black hair styled into a precise straight bob. Her striking chocolate-brown couture gown featured an asymmetrical neckline and delicate bronze beadwork that cascaded across one side of her body. In her left hand, she carried a structured brown designer handbag with polished gold hardware.
She looked like someone arriving for an exclusive fashion event.
In fact, she was.
That evening, Diana was scheduled to host a charitable gala at a nearby hotel, where a historic diamond necklace would be presented to donors supporting an apprenticeship program for young jewelry designers.
But she had another reason for visiting the boutique.
One she hadn't shared with the manager.
Diana approached the central display counter and smiled politely at a young sales associate.
"Good afternoon. I'd like to see the restoration prepared for tonight's gala."
The associate smiled back.
"Of course, ma'am. May I have your name?"
"Diana Mitchell."
Before the associate could respond, a sharp female voice interrupted from behind the counter.
"Excuse me?"
Diana turned.
A tall, blonde white woman in a navy pinstripe blazer, crisp white blouse, and expensive black heels was approaching. Her neatly pinned hair, diamond brooch, and rigid posture gave her the appearance of someone accustomed to controlling every detail around her.
Her name was Patricia Wittmann.
She was forty-nine years old and had managed the Beverly Hills boutique for the past seven months.
Patricia looked Diana up and down.
Then glanced toward the open entrance.
"Are you here for the private trunk show?"
Diana shook her head.
"I'm here to review a piece that's being prepared for tonight."
Patricia's expression cooled.
"We don't allow unsolicited promotional visits."
Diana frowned slightly.
"I'm not promoting anything."