Hidden Riches (25 page)

“I don't want you pulling her out of character.”

“Don't worry.” She slipped an arm around his shoulders and, despite the fact that she'd seen the production countless times, was soon as absorbed in the staging as he.

Jed hung back, more intrigued by Dora and Quentin than the dialogue onstage. Their heads were tilted together as they discussed some minor bit of business that had been added to the scene. Quentin's arm came up to wrap around her waist; Dora's body angled toward his.

Jed experienced a sensation that shocked him more than a blow to the neck. It was envy.

Had he ever felt that easy affection, that simple sense of companionship with his own father? he wondered. The answer was very simple and very bleak. No. Never. He couldn't remember a single conversation that hadn't been fraught with undercurrents of tension, disillusionment, resentment. Now, even had he wanted to, it was much too late to make peace. It was certainly useless to try to understand why.

When the old bitterness threatened, he walked quietly back toward the dressing rooms. He'd have a cigarette and wait to question Terri.

Dora looked over her shoulder. Her smile faded when she saw he was no longer there.

“Dad?”

“And music,” he whispered. “Good, good. Hmmm?”

“I'm in love with Jed.”

“Yes, my sweet, I know.”

“No, Dad. I'm really in love with him.”

“I know.” For no one else would he have broken his concentration. But he turned to Dora with a twinkling grin. “I picked him for you, didn't I?”

“I don't think he's going to want me to be. Sometimes I can almost see where he's bleeding inside.”

“You'll fix that, given time. ‘What wound did ever heal but by degrees?' ”

“
Othello.
” She wrinkled her nose. “I didn't care for the ending in that one.”

“You'll write your own. Conroys are excellent improvisers.” A thought popped into his brain and made his eyes gleam. “Perhaps you'd like me to give him a little nudge. I could arrange a quiet man-to-man talk, with some of my special brew.”

“No.” She tapped a finger on his nose. “No,” she repeated. “I'll handle this myself.” Lowering her hand, she pressed it to her jittery stomach. “I'm scared,” she confessed. “It's happened so fast.”

“In the blood,” Quentin said sagely. “The minute I saw your mother, I broke out in a vicious sweat. Most embarrassing. It took me nearly two weeks to get up the nerve to ask her to marry me. I kept going up on the lines.”

“You never blew a line in your life.” She kissed him as the applause broke out. “I love you.”

“That's exactly what you should tell him.” He gave her a squeeze. “Listen, Izzy, we're bringing the house down.”

Responding to the applause, and the sudden chaos backstage, Jed went back to the wings just as Dora caught Terri.

“Hey, you working props tonight?”

“No.” Dora got a good grip on Terri's arm. “I need to talk to you for a minute.”

“Sure. How about that dance number? Those lessons I've been taking are paying off.”

“You were great.” With a nod to Jed, Dora steered Terri briskly through the stagehands and technicians. “We'll just need a corner of the dressing room.”

Several other members of the chorus were already inside, repairing hair and makeup. Though some were stripped down to their underwear for costume changes, no one gave Jed more than a brief glance.

“Can I borrow this?” Dora asked, and commandeered a
stool before anyone would refuse. “Sit down, Terri, get off your feet.”

“You don't know how good that feels.” She shifted toward the mirrors, choosing a makeup sponge to dab at the greasepaint moistened by sweat.

“About DiCarlo,” Dora began.

“Who?” Terri stopped running lines in her head. “Oh, the guy from Christmas Eve.” She smiled at Jed. “Dora's been real mysterious about him.”

“What did he buy?” Jed asked.

“Oh, a Staffordshire figure. Never even winked at the price. He looked like he could afford it without any trouble though. And it was for his aunt. His favorite aunt. He said how she'd practically raised him, and she was getting really old. You know, a lot of people don't think that old people like getting nice things, but you could tell he really loved her.”

Jed let her run down. “Did he show any interest in anything else?”

“Well, he looked all around, took his time. I thought he might bite on the Foo dog because he was looking for an animal.”

“An animal?” Jed's eyes sharpened, but his voice remained cool and flat.

“You know, a statue of one. His aunt collects statues. Dogs,” she added, relining her eyes with quick, deft movements. “See, she had this dog that died, and—”

“Was he specific?” Jed interrupted.

“Uh . . .” Terri pursed her lips and tried to think back. “Seems to me he really wanted a dog like the one his aunt had had who died—said he hadn't been able to find exactly what he'd been looking for.” She freshened her lipstick, checked the results. “I remember he talked about the dog his aunt had—the dead one. I thought how we'd had that china piece that would have been perfect. It sounded like the dead dog had modeled for it. While he was alive, you know.” She picked up a brush to fuss with her hair. “You
know, Dora, the one you picked up at that auction. We'd already sold it, though.”

Dora felt her blood drain. “To Mrs. Lyle.”

“I don't know. You handled that sale, I think.”

“Yes.” Light-headed, Dora twisted her fingers together. “Yes, I did.”

“Hey!” Alarmed, Terri turned on the stool. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.” She forced a smile. She needed to get out. Needed air. “Thanks, Terri.”

“No problem. Are you staying for the rest of the show?”

“Not tonight.” Sickened, Dora fumbled for the door. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Maybe you'd better go after her,” Terri said to Jed. “She looked a little faint.”

“Did you tell him about the china piece?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Baffled, Terri slid off the stool and went to the door to see if Dora was in the corridor. “It seemed like such a coincidence, you know. I told him how we'd had something, but we'd sold it. I'm going to see what's wrong with Dora.”

“I'll do it.”

He caught up to her at the stage door, just as she was pushing through and drawing in deep breaths of air.

“Shake it off, Conroy.” He held her by the shoulders at arm's length. He was afraid if he did more, she'd snap like a twig.

“I sold it to her.” When she tried to jerk away, he merely tightened his hold. “For God's sake, Jed, I sold it to her. I don't know what he wanted it for, why he would have killed for it, but I sold it to her and the day after he found out—”

“I said shake it off.” He all but lifted her off her feet, his face close to hers. “You sell lots of things—that's what you do. You're not responsible for what happens to the people who buy them.”

“I can't be like that!” she shouted at him, and struck
out. “I can't close myself off that way. That's your trick, Skimmerhorn. Make sure you don't give a damn, make sure nothing slips through and actually makes you feel. That's you. Not me.”

That got through, and twisted in his gut. “You want to blame yourself, fine.” Gripping her arm, he pulled her away from the door. “I'll take you home and you can spend the night beating yourself up over it.”

“I don't have to apologize for having feelings. And I can get myself home.”

“You wouldn't get two blocks before that bleeding heart of yours splashed on the sidewalk.”

The buzzing in her ears came first. It always did when her temper snapped. Quick as a snake she rounded on him, leading with her left. He dodged that, but it was only a fake. Her sneaky right caught him in the jaw and snapped his head back.

“Son of a bitch.” He saw stars. Later, he might take a moment to admire the fact that she'd all but knocked him on his ass. But now, eyes slitted with fury, he clenched his fists. She tossed her chin up in challenge.

“Try it,” she invited. “Just try it.”

It could have been funny—if there had been only temper in her eyes. If there hadn't been the quiver of tears beneath the dare. “Fuck this,” he muttered. Ducking under her raised fists, he caught her around the waist and scooped her up over his shoulder.

She exploded with a volley of oaths, furious at the indignity of having to hammer at his back. “Put me down, you chicken-hearted bastard. You want to fight?”

“I've never coldcocked a woman in my life, Conroy, but you can be the first.”

“Goddamn you, put me down and try it. They'll have to scrape you up off the pavement. When I'm finished, they'll have to pick you up with tweezers. They'll . . .” It drained out of her, as it always did, quickly, completely. She went limp, shut her eyes. “I'm sorry.”

He wasn't finished being angry. “Shut up.” He yanked out his keys, punched them into the door lock. In a smooth, economic move, he pulled her down, protected her head with his hand and shoved her into the car.

She kept her eyes closed, listening to him stalk around the car, open the door, slam it again. “I am sorry, Jed. I apologize for hitting you. Does it hurt?”

He wiggled his throbbing jaw. “No.” He wouldn't have admitted it if it had been broken. “You hit like a girl.”

“The hell I do.” Insulted, she snapped up in her seat. The cool look in his eyes made her slump back again. “I wasn't angry with you,” she murmured as he drove out of the lot. “I needed to vent at someone, and you were handy.”

“Glad I could help.”

If he was trying to chastise her with that frigid tone, she thought, he was doing a first-rate job. “You deserve to be mad.” She kept her eyes lowered.

It was more difficult to take her sincerity, and her misery, than it had been to take the punch. “Just let it go. And Conroy? Don't mention to anybody that you got past my guard.”

She turned back and, seeing the worst had passed, mustered up a smile. “I'll take it to my grave. If it's any consolation, I might have broken several fingers.”

“It's not.” But he took her hand, lifted it to touch to his lips. The stunned expression on her face had him scowling again. “What's the problem now?”

Since he'd released her hand she brought it up to her own cheek. “You threw me off a minute, that's all. The sweet routine hasn't exactly been your style with me.”

Uncomfortable, he shifted in his seat. “Don't make me regret it.”

“I probably shouldn't tell you, but bits of business like that—hand kissing and similar romantic gestures—make me all squishy inside.”

“Define ‘similar romantic gestures.' ”

“Oh, like flowers, and long smoldering looks. Now that I
think of it, you've done pretty well in the long-smoldering-look department. Then there's the big guns. Sweeping me up into your arms and carrying me up a curving staircase.”

“You don't have a curving staircase.”

“I could imagine I did.” On impulse, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I'm glad you're not mad at me anymore.”

“Who said I wasn't? I just don't want to fight when I'm driving.” He lapsed into silence a moment. “About Mrs. Lyle,” he began. “I'm going to need to check on her condition. If she comes out of it, she might put some pieces together for me.”

“Us,” Dora corrected quietly. “She's awake. Her niece came by the shop this morning.” She linked her fingers again, tightly, and concentrated on keeping her voice calm and even. “She told me that Mrs. Lyle had come out of the coma, but that the doctors weren't committing themselves about her recovery.”

“It's too late to try to get in to see her tonight,” Jed said after a moment. “I can probably pull some strings tomorrow.”

“I don't think you'd have to. I'd only have to ask Sharon—the niece.” Dora kept her eyes straight ahead and tried not to resent the absence of concern in his voice. “But I won't do it unless I'm sure she's up to it. I won't let her be interrogated after what she's been through.”

Tires spat out gravel when he turned into the lot. “Do I look like the gestapo, Conroy? You figure I'll shine a light in her eyes and find ways of making her talk?”

Saying nothing, she snapped down the door handle and climbed out. He reached the steps before her and blocked the way.

“Dora.” Searching for patience, he took her hands. They were icy and stiff. “I know what I'm doing, and I'm not in the habit of badgering hospitalized old ladies for information.” He looked down at her face. He didn't like to ask.
He didn't like to need. But he found he had no choice. “Trust me.”

“I do.” Watching his face, she linked her fingers with his. “Completely. This whole thing has shaken me up some, that's all. I'll get in touch with Sharon first thing in the morning.”

“Good.” A bit shaken himself, he lowered his head to kiss her. No, he didn't like to ask. He didn't like to need. But he did. “Stay with me tonight.”

The worry cleared from her eyes. “I was hoping you'd ask.”

D
ora had never considered herself phobic about hospitals. She was young and healthy and hadn't spent a great deal of time in one, and never as a patient. When she thought of hospitals at all, she thought of babies in the nursery, bouquets of flowers and the brisk efficiency of the nursing staff striding down the corridors in crepe-soled shoes.

Yet standing outside the Critical Care Unit waiting to speak with Mrs. Lyle, she felt as if a stone were lodged in her chest. Too quiet, she thought. It was much too quiet, with death patiently lurking behind glass doors and thin curtains, waiting to choose. She could hear the muffled beats and hums from machines and monitors, like grumbling old women complaining about aches and pains. From somewhere down the corridor came the pathetic sound of low and steady weeping.

All at once she wanted a cigarette, with a razor-sharp craving.

Sharon stepped through the swinging doors. Though she looked strained, her lips curved into a smile when she saw Dora. “She's lucid. I can't tell you how good it felt to talk to her, really talk to her.”

“I'm glad.” Battered with both guilt and relief, Dora took Sharon's hand in both of hers. “Sharon, this is Captain Skimmerhorn and Lieutenant Chapman.”

“Hello. Dora told me you want to talk to Aunt Alice.”

“We've cleared it with her doctor,” Brent said. “And we appreciate your cooperation.”

Sharon's mouth thinned into a hard, bloodless line. “Whatever I can do to help you find the person who did this to my aunt. She's expecting you.”

Jed read the concern in the way Sharon looked back toward the doors. “We won't tire her.”

“I know.” Her hand fluttered up, then came to rest on the child in her womb. There was family to protect. And there was family to avenge. “Dora said you'd be careful. You'll let me know, won't you, if you learn anything?”

“Of course they will.” Dora steered her toward a bench. “In the meantime, you sit down. Get off your feet. Try to relax.”

“We've only got fifteen minutes with her,” Jed said quietly when Dora returned. “Let's make it count. You,” he added with a nod toward Dora. “Do nothing, say nothing unless you get the go-ahead.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Ignoring her, he turned to Brent. “She shouldn't be going in at all.”

“She's seen the statue, we haven't. Let's see if it means anything.” He led the way through the doors, past the nurses' station and into one of the small, curtained rooms.

Dora was grateful she'd been ordered to silence. She couldn't trust her voice. The woman she remembered as elegant and enthusiastic lay on the narrow bed, her eyes
closed and shadowed with dingy bruises. The formerly deeply black hair was dulled, and gray was beginning to show at the roots, and her skin was sallow against the startlingly white bandages. Her face was drawn, the cheekbones jutting up sharply against skin that looked thin enough to tear at a touch.

“Mrs. Lyle.” Brent stood at the bedside, spoke quietly.

Dora could see the pale blue veins in the eyelids when they fluttered. The monitor continued its monotonous beep as Mrs. Lyle struggled to focus.

“Yes?” Her voice was weak, and rough, as if her vocal cords had been sandpapered while she slept.

“I'm Lieutenant Chapman. Do you feel able to answer a few questions?”

“Yes.”

Dora watched Mrs. Lyle try to swallow. Automatically she moved forward to pick up the cup of water and slip the straw between the dry lips.

“Thank you.” Her voice was a shade stronger. She focused on Dora and smiled. “Miss Conroy. How nice of you to visit.”

Jed's order was easily forgotten. “I'm glad you're feeling better.” She reached down to close her fingers gently over Mrs. Lyle's frail hand. “I'm sorry you were hurt.”

“They told me Muriel is dead.” The tired eyes filled slowly, the aftermath of a storm already spent. “She was very dear to me.”

Guilt was like a wave battering against the wall of Dora's composure. She could stand against it, but she couldn't ignore it. “I'm so sorry. The police hope you'll be able to help them find the man who did this.” She pulled a Kleenex out of the box beside the bed and gently dried Mrs. Lyle's cheeks.

“I want to help.” Firming her lips, she looked back at Brent. “I didn't see him, Lieutenant. I didn't see anyone. I was . . . watching a movie on television, and I thought I heard Muriel—” She broke off then and her fingers shifted
in Dora's for comfort. “I thought I heard her come in behind me. Then there was this horrible pain, as if something had exploded in my head.”

“Mrs. Lyle,” Brent began, “do you remember buying a china dog from Miss Conroy the day before you were attacked?”

“Yes, for Sharon's baby. A doorstop,” she said, and turned her head toward Dora again. “I'm worried that Sharon's not getting enough rest. This stress—”

“She's fine,” Dora assured her.

“Mrs. Lyle.” Jed stepped forward. “Do you remember anything else about the statue?”

“No.” Though she tried to concentrate, memories drifted through like clouds. “It was rather sweet. A watchdog, I thought, for the baby. Is that what he wanted?” Her hand moved restlessly again. “Is that what he wanted? The little dog? I thought—I thought I heard him shouting for the dog. But that couldn't be.”

Jed leaned forward so that her eyes would focus on his. There was panic in hers, but he had to press, just a little further. “What did you think you heard him shouting, Mrs. Lyle?”

“ ‘Where's the dog?' And he swore. I was lying there, and I couldn't move. I thought I'd had a stroke and was dreaming. There was crashing and shouting, shouting over and over about a dog. And then there was nothing.” She closed her eyes again, exhausted. “Surely he didn't murder Muriel for a little china dog.”

 

“But he did, didn't he?” Dora asked when they stood together at the elevators.

“Not much doubt of it.” Brent worried his glasses, stuck his hands in his pockets. “But that's not the end of it. The bullet that killed Muriel came from the same gun that killed Trainor.” He looked at Jed. “Matched the ones we dug out of the plaster at the shop.”

“So he came back for something else.” Calculating, Jed
stepped into the elevator. “The dog wasn't it—or wasn't all of it. Whatever
it
is.”

“But the piece wasn't valuable or unique,” Dora murmured. “It wasn't even marked. I only bid on it because it was cute.”

“You bought it at an auction.” Slowly, Jed turned the possibilities over in his mind. “Where?”

“In Virginia. Lea and I went on a buying trip. You remember. I got back the day you moved in.”

“And the next day you sold the dog.” He took her arm to pull her out of the elevator when they reached the lobby. “There was a break-in at the shop, Mrs. Lyle was attacked, then another break-in. What else did you buy, Dora?”

“At the auction. A lot of things.” She dragged her hand through her hair, leaving her coat unbuttoned to the cold as she stepped outside between the two men. The brisk air helped blow away some of the sickly scent of hospital. “I have a list at the shop.”

“Don't they have lots at auctions?” Brent asked. “Or groups of merchandise that come from the same place or the same seller?”

“Sure. Sometimes you buy a trunk full of junk just to get one piece. This wasn't Sotheby's; it was more of a flea market, but there were several good buys.”

“What did you buy right before the dog, and right after?”

She was tired, down to the bone. The vague throb in her temple warned of a titanic headache in progress. “Christ, Skimmerhorn, how am I supposed to remember? Life hasn't been exactly uneventful since then.”

“That's bull, Conroy.” His voice took on an edge that had Brent's brows raising. He'd heard it before—when Jed had been interrogating an uncooperative suspect. “You know everything you buy, everything you sell, and the exact price, tax included. Now what did you buy before the dog?”

“A shaving mug, swan-shaped.” She snapped the words out. “Circa nineteen hundred. Forty-six dollars and seventy-five cents. You don't pay tax when you buy for resale.”

“And after the dog?”

“An abstract painting in an ebony frame. Primary colors on white canvas, signed E. Billingsly. Final bid fifty-two seventy-five—” She broke off, pressed a hand to her mouth. “Oh my God.”

“Right on target,” Jed muttered.

“A picture,” she whispered, horrified. “Not a photograph, a painting. He wanted the painting.”

“Let's go find out why.”

Dora's cheeks were the color of paste as she groped for Jed's hand. “I gave it to my mother.” Nausea rolled greasily in her stomach. “I gave it to my mother.”

 

“I adore unexpected company.” Trixie batted her luxuriant lashes as she hooked her arms through Jed's and Brent's. “I'm delighted you were able to find time in your busy day to drop in.”

“Mom, we only have a few minutes,” Dora began.

“Nonsense.” Trixie was already towing the two men out of the postage-stamp foyer and into what she preferred to call the drawing room. “You must stay for lunch. I'm sure Carlotta can whip up something wonderful for us.”

“That's nice of you, Mrs. Conroy, but—”

“Trixie.” Her laugh was a light trill as she tapped a teasing finger against Brent's chest. “I'm only Mrs. Conroy to strangers and bill collectors.”

“Trixie.” A dull flush crept up Brent's neck. He didn't think he'd ever been flirted with by a woman old enough to be his mother before. “We're really a little pressed for time.”

“Pressing time is what causes ulcers. No one in my family ever had stomach problems—except dear Uncle Will, who spent his whole life making money and none of it enjoying it. Then what could he do but leave it all to me? And of course, we enjoyed it very much. Please, please, sit.”

She gestured toward two sturdy wing chairs in front of a
crackling fire. She arranged herself on a red velvet settee, much like a queen taking the throne.

“And how is your charming wife?”

“She's fine. We enjoyed your party the other night.”

“It was fun, wasn't it?” Her eyes sparkled. She draped an arm casually over the back of the settee—a mature Scarlett entertaining her beaux at Tara. “I adore parties. Isadora, dear, ring for Carlotta, won't you?”

Resigned, Dora pulled an old-fashioned needlepoint bell rope hanging on the left of the mantel. “Mom, I just dropped by to pick up the painting. There's . . . some interest in it.”

“Painting?” Trixie crossed her legs. Her blue silk lounging pants whispered with the movement. “Which painting is that, darling?”

“The abstract.”

“Oh, yes.” She shifted her body toward Jed. “Normally, I prefer more traditional styles, but there was something so bold and high-handed about that work. I can see that you'd be interested. It would suit you.”

“Thanks.” He assumed it was a compliment. In any case, it seemed easier to play along. “I enjoy abstract expressionism—Pollock, for example, with his complicated linear rhythms, his way of attacking the canvas. Also the energy and verve of say, de Kooning.”

“Yes, of course,” Trixie enthused, bright-eyed, though she hadn't a clue.

Jed had the satisfaction of seeing sheer astonishment on Dora's face. He only smiled, smugly, and folded his hands. “And of course, there's Motherwell. Those austere colors and amorphous shapes.”

“Genius,” Trixie agreed. “Absolute genius.” Dazzled, she glanced toward the hall at the sound of familiar stomping.

Carlotta entered, hands on the hips of the black sweatpants she wore in lieu of a uniform. She was a small, stubby woman, resembling a tree stump with arms. Her sallow face was set in permanent annoyance.

“What you want?”

“We'll have tea, Carlotta,” Trixie instructed, her voice suddenly very grande dame. “Oolong, I believe.”

Carlotta's beady black eyes scanned the group. “They staying for lunch?” she demanded in her harsh and somehow exotic voice.

“No,” Dora said.

“Yes,” her mother said simultaneously. “Set for four, if you please.”

Carlotta lifted her squared-off chin. “Then they eat tuna fish. That's what I fixed; that's what they eat.”

“I'm sure that will be delightful.” Trixie waggled her fingers in dismissal.

“She's just plain ornery,” Dora muttered as she sat on the arm of Jed's chair. It was unlikely they would escape without tea and tuna fish, but at least she could focus her mother on the matter at hand. “The painting? I thought you were going to hang it in here.”

“I did, but it simply didn't work. Too frenzied,” she explained to Jed, whom she now considered an expert on the subject. “One does like to let the mind rest in one's drawing room. We put it in Quentin's den. He thought it might energize him.”

“I'll get it.”

“An extraordinary girl, our Isadora,” Trixie said when Dora was out of earshot. She smiled at Jed, but didn't quite disguise the gleam of calculation in her eyes. “So bright and ambitious. Strong-minded, of course, which only means she requires an equally strong-minded man to complement her. I believe a woman who can run her own business will run a home and family with equal success. Don't you, dear?”

Any response could spring the trap. “I imagine she could do whatever she set out to do.”

“No doubt about it. Your wife is a professional woman, isn't she, Brent? And a mother of three.”

“That's right.” Since Jed was clearly on the hot seat, Brent grinned. “It takes a team effort to keep all the
balls in the air, but we like it.”

“And a single man, after a certain age . . .” Trixie aimed a telling look at Jed, who barely resisted the urge to squirm. “He benefits from that teamwork. The companionship of a woman, the solace of family. Have you ever been married, Jed?”