Hidden Riches (28 page)

“Looks like the Monet's genuine.” Jed sat down and pulled Dora's plate to his side of the booth. “They'll need to run tests to be a hundred percent, but my grandmother and her pal gave it thumbs up.”

“Who's her pal?”

“A guy she knows. Used to be a curator at the Met.” He wolfed down a triangle of sandwich and signaled for coffee. “It also turns out that every name on the list, everybody who bought from the shipment, was hit during the period between the twenty-second of December and New Year's.”

“Hit?” The blood drained out of her face. “You mean, they're dead?”

“No.” Jed took her hand and gave it a solid squeeze. “Robbed. In each case, the piece they'd bought at the auction was taken. Sloppy jobs. From what Brent tells me they look like deliberately sloppy jobs. And there's still no sign of DiCarlo. He's some sort of vice president of the New York branch of E. F., Incorporated. He hasn't shown for work since before Christmas. He did call in a few times, but not since the end of the year. His secretary and his staff claim not to know his whereabouts. His mother filed a missing-person's report with the NYPD this morning.”

“So, he's on the run.” Dora picked up her coffee and missed the flicker in Jed's eyes. “Good. I hope he keeps running until he falls off a cliff. What do we do now?”

Jed moved his shoulders and chose another section of the sandwich. “If we can put enough evidence together to tie
him to the murders in Philly and in Virginia, we can call in the Feds.”

“You don't have to tell me you don't want to do that. I'm beginning to read you, Captain.”

“I like to finish what I start.” Idly, he turned her notebook around so he could read it. A smile tugged at his mouth. “Playing Nancy Drew again?”

“You're not wearing a badge, Skimmerhorn. I guess that makes you Joe Hardy.”

He let that pass. Her diagrams interested him. At the top she had Premium Shipping, with lines leading off right and left. At the end of one she'd written Porter. The tail of the other ended in a question mark. Below it was a list of the inventory Flowers claimed to have shipped. Shooting down from Porter were all the names of buyers from the auction and their purchases. Another line connected her name with Mrs. Lyle's.

“What are you getting at here, Nancy?”

“It's a theory.” Her spine stiffened at his tone. “I have two, actually. The first is that DiCarlo was double-crossed. Whoever he had handling the valuables pulled a fast one and shipped them to Virginia.”

“Motive?”

“I don't know.” She huffed and snatched up her coffee. “Some disgruntled underling he hadn't promoted, a woman scorned—or maybe just some hapless clerk who screwed up.”

“That might work if the disgruntled underling or the scorned woman had kept some of the loot. And even a hapless clerk would be hard-pressed to screw up by sending a shipment of merchandise to some dinky auction house in Virginia where it's unlikely DiCarlo had any ties.”

“For all you know, DiCarlo might have been using Porter's as a clearinghouse for smuggled merchandise for years.” She tossed her hair back and scowled at him. “I suppose you have a better theory?”

“Yeah, I got one. But let's look behind door number
two.” He was grinning now, enjoying himself. He tapped her diagram. “What have you got here?”

“I don't have to take your superior amusement, Skimmerhorn.”

“Indulge me.” He lifted her hand, nipped at her knuckles. “Just for a minute.”

“Well, it's obvious to me there were two shipments. The one from the estate sale, and the one with the smuggled goods. Since we agree that it would have been impossibly stupid for DiCarlo to have purposely shipped off his loot to Virginia where it would be offered for sale to the highest bidder, the logical conclusion is that the two shipments were mixed up.”

“Keep going,” he encouraged. “You're about to earn a merit badge.”

“And since both packing slips originated from Premium, one could deduce that the mix-up happened there.”

“Nice going, Nancy.” Pleased with her, he pulled out his wallet and tossed bills on the table. “Let's go check out Queens.”

“Wait a minute.” She caught up with him at the door.

“Are you saying you think I'm right?”

“I'm saying we should check it out.”

“Nope, not good enough.” She shifted her body to block the door. “Look me in the eye, Skimmerhorn, and say you think I'm right.”

“I think you're right.”

She let out a whoop of triumph and yanked open the door herself. “Then what are we waiting for?”

 

“You know,” Dora said after they'd cooled their heels in Bill Tarkington's office for fifteen minutes, “most of police work is really boring.”

“Thinking about giving it up, Conroy?”

She braced her elbow on the arm of her chair, cupped her chin in her hand. “Is this the sort of thing you did every day for all those years?”

He kept his back to her, watching the belts and the shipping clerks. “I couldn't calculate the number of hours I spent waiting.”

She yawned, hugely. “I suppose it teaches you patience.”

“No. Not necessarily. You juggle enough hours of tedium with enough moments of terror, and it teaches you not to relax your guard.”

She could see his profile from where she sat. Only a part of him was in the room with her, she realized. Another part was somewhere he wouldn't let her follow. “How do you handle the terror?”

“By recognizing it, by accepting it.”

“I can't imagine you being afraid,” she murmured.

“I told you that you didn't know me. I think this is our man now.”

Tarkington bounced up to the door, beaming his cheery smile. “Mr. Skimmerhorn?” He pumped Jed's hand enthusiastically. “And Miss Conroy. I apologize for making you wait. How about some coffee? A doughnut. Maybe a nice danish.”

Before Jed could decline, Dora was beaming at Tarkington. “I'd love some coffee.”

“Just let me pour you a cup.” Happy to serve, Tarkington turned to fill three cups. Dora sent Jed a smug look.

“We know you're busy, Mr. Tarkington. I hope we won't keep you long.”

“Don't you worry about it. Always got time for a customer, yes sir. Cream? Sugar?”

“Black,” Jed told him, and watched, slightly appalled, when Tarkington dropped a flood of sugar into one of the cups.

“Now then.” He passed out the coffee, took a sip from his own heavily sweetened cup. “You had some question about a shipment, didn't you?”

“That's right.” Jed reached in his pocket to read off the numbers of the shipping invoice he'd copied from Flowers. “A package shipped out of this building on December
seventeenth from a Franklin Flowers, destination Sherman Porter, Front Royal, Virginia. Number ASB-54467.”

“That's fine.” Tarkington settled himself behind his desk. “We'll just call that right on up. What was the problem, exactly?”

“The merchandise shipped was not the merchandise received.”

Tarkington's fingers dropped away from the keys of his computer. His face took on a pained look, as though he were suffering from intestinal gas. “Oh Lordy, Lordy, not again.”

“You had this happen before?” Jed demanded.

Recovering, Tarkington punched keys. “I assure you, Mr. Skimmerhorn, Premium has a top-notch reputation. I can only say that the Christmas rush this year was unusually bad. December seventeenth, you said.” His little eyes brightened. “That could be it!”

“What?”

“There was another complaint about a shipment that went out that very same day. The client was very upset, let me tell you. Not nearly as patient as you and Miss Conroy.”

“DiCarlo,” Dora said involuntarily.

Before Jed could snarl at her, Tarkington was beaming again. “Righto. Do you know him?”

“We've met.” Dora kept an easy smile on her face.

“Isn't that a coincidence?” Shaking his head at the way of the world, Tarkington happily tapped keys. “This takes a weight off these old shoulders, let me tell you. I've done everything possible to locate Mr. DiCarlo's merchandise, and now it seems likely that the two shipments were mismarked and misdirected. I can't come up with a ready answer as to how that could have happened, but the solution seems simple as apple pie. I'll contact Mr. DiCarlo immediately.”

“We'll take care of that.” Jed scanned the computer screen over Tarkington's shoulder and noted the shipping clerk's name.

“That would save me an embarrassing moment.” He slurped at his coffee and winked, showing Jed and Dora that they were, indeed, happy campers. “We will, of course, reimburse both you and Mr. DiCarlo for all shipping charges.”

“Fine.”

“I was right,” Dora said under her breath as they walked away.

“Pat yourself on the back later.” Jed walked up to the nearest clerk. “Where's Johnson?”

“Opal?” The clerk jerked his head toward another conveyor belt. “Over there. Line six.”

“What are we doing now?” Dora asked.

“Checking tedious details.”

Dora didn't find it tedious at all. Not when they'd sat with Opal in the employee lunchroom and listened to her story. Because she was obviously fascinated and sympathetic, Jed sat back, lighted a cigarette and let Dora play good cop.

He wasn't about to tell her, but he'd have said she'd been born for it.

“Can you believe it?” The excitement was drumming again as they made their way across the parking lot. “She drops a handful of invoices, and we end up with a smuggled Monet.” She grinned as Jed unlocked the car door. “Maybe I like police work after all.”

“Stick with selling knickknacks,” Jed advised.

“At least you could say I did a good job.”

“You did a good job. Don't get cocky.”

“I'm not cocky.” She slipped out of her shoes. “But now we know how, we know why and we know who. All we have to do now is find DiCarlo.”

“Leave that one to the big boys, baby.”

“You're going to turn it over?” Astonishment shimmered out of every pore. “You're going to turn it over now?”

“I didn't say that. I said it's time for you to step back.”

“You're not making one move without me, Skimmerhorn. If I hadn't bought smuggled goods and ended up in the
middle of this mess, you'd still be sulking and lifting weights.”

“You want me to thank you for that?”

“You will. When you come to your senses.” Relaxed, she sighed and smiled. “Sure you don't want to take me up on that expensive hotel?”

“I've seen enough of New York, thanks.”

And he had something else to check out now. Bill Tarkington's computer screen had been a fount of information, including the intended recipient of DiCarlo's illicit shipment. Abel Winesap of E. F., Incorporated, Los Angeles.

T
he chill in the air didn't prevent Finley from his morning ritual. Every day, regardless of the weather, he swam fifty laps in his hourglass-shaped pool while Vivaldi poured out of the speakers hidden in the jasmine plants. It was, to him, a matter of discipline. Of course, the water was heated to a pleasant eighty-three degrees—exactly.

As he cut through the warm water with strong, sure strokes, thin fingers of steam curled up into the cool winter air. He counted the laps himself, gaining arrogance and satisfaction with each turn.

The pool was his, and his alone. Finley allowed no servant, no companion, no guest, to sully his waters.

Once, when he had been entertaining, a tipsy acquaintance had tumbled in. The following day Finley had had the pool drained, scrubbed out and refilled. Needless to say, his
hapless guest had never been invited back.

Now, he rose in the water, enjoying the sensation of having the water slice off his skin. Gooseflesh popped out over his body as he strode up the wide, curving steps, onto the terra-cotta skirt and into the snowy-white robe his butler held for him.

“Time?” he said, rubbing down briskly.

“Twelve minutes, eighteen seconds, sir.”

The butler always stopped the clock at precisely that time. Once, he made the mistake of timing Finley at a bit over thirteen minutes. An ugly scene had followed, during which the man had nearly lost his well-paying job. Finley never went over twelve-eighteen again.

“Excellent.” Smugly satisfied, Finley accepted his vitamin drink, a concoction created especially for him by his personal trainer. Even served in a Waterford tumbler, the thick, nasty-looking mixture of herbs, vegetables and Chinese roots tasted foul. Finley drank it quickly, as though it were the fresh, clear water of the Fountain of Youth. He'd convinced himself it was exactly that.

Finley dismissed the butler by handing him back both the damp towel and the empty glass.

Now that the first part of his morning ritual was behind him, Finley allowed himself to consider the problem of Isadora Conroy. It was not an altogether unpleasant problem, he mused. One couldn't become overly disgruntled at the prospect of dealing with a young, beautiful woman. He strode in through the French doors of the parlor as he reflected on the possibilities.

Secure in his power, Finley showered and groomed and dressed. He enjoyed a pleasant breakfast of fresh fruit, whole-wheat toast and herbal tea on the patio a few feet from where he had gut-shot DiCarlo. All the while he considered Isadora. When the solution came to him, he smiled, even chuckled softly, and blotted his lips.

It would work, he decided. And if it didn't—well then, he would simply kill her.

* * *

Dora was trying not to be annoyed. It was too predictable a reaction, she told herself, much too typical. Any woman would be annoyed if she awakened alone in bed without a clue as to where her lover had gone, or when he might be returning.

She wasn't
any
woman, Dora reminded herself. And she wasn't going to be annoyed—she wasn't even going to be mildly miffed. They were each free to come and go as they pleased. She wouldn't even ask him where the hell he'd been.

But when she heard the knock on the door, she tugged down the hem of her oversized sweatshirt, lifted her chin and marched into the living room.

“Okay, Skimmerhorn, you pig,” she muttered. “This better be good.”

She yanked open the door, searing words ready to leap off her tongue. She had to swallow them back when she stood face-to-face with Honoria Skimmerhorn Rodgers.

“Oh.” Dora pushed at the hair she'd bundled untidily on top of her head. “Mrs. Rodgers. Hello.”

“Good morning, Dora.” Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Honoria reveal her amusement in watching the changes in Dora's expressive face. The fury, the shock, the embarrassment. “Have I caught you at an awkward time?”

“No. No. I was just . . .” Dora swallowed a nervous giggle and smiled. “If you're looking for Jed, he doesn't seem to be around.”

“Actually, I was hoping for a word with you. May I come in?”

“Of course.” Dora stepped back, miserably regretting that she hadn't opened the shop that day and therefore hadn't dressed for work. She felt like a used dust rag in her Steelers sweatshirt and bare feet while Honoria swept in smelling of Paris and wrapped in a luxurious fur jacket.

“How charming!” The sincerity in Honoria's voice did a great deal to put Dora back on keel. “How utterly
charming.” Her appreciative gaze roamed the room while she tugged off her gloves. “I must confess, I often wondered about these apartments over shops on South Street. It's quite large, isn't it?”

“I need a lot of room. May I take your coat?”

“Yes, thank you.”

As Dora hung up the mink, Honoria continued to wander the room. “I peeked in your shop window downstairs. I was disappointed to find it closed. But this”—she ran a fingertip along the sinuous, female lines of a Deco lamp—“is every bit as delightful.”

“One of the best things about selling is that I can live with my stock as long as I like. Would you like some coffee, tea?”

“I'd love some coffee, if it's not too much trouble.”

“Not at all. Please, sit down, make yourself at home.”

“Thank you. I believe I'll do just that.”

Honoria didn't consider herself nosy—simply interested. She was interested enough to study and approve Dora's view of bustling and artsy South Street from the tall living room windows. She also enjoyed and approved the decor of the apartment—warm and cozy, she decided, while remaining eclectic and a tad theatrical. Yes, she liked the room very much—a perfect mirror of Dora's personality.

The girl would do, she thought, and lifted up a tortoiseshell tea caddy to admire it. The girl would do very, very well.

“Here we are.” Dora carried out a tray laden with a Fiesta ware pot and cups. She wished she could find some tactful way to dash into the bathroom and put on her lipstick. “Shall we take it in here?”

“That would be fine. Let me make room on the table for you. What a marvelous aroma. Scones?” Her eyes brightened. “How delightful.”

“I always keep some around.” Honoria's simple pleasure had Dora relaxing again. “There's something so civilized about scones.”

With a laugh, Honoria settled herself. “You're very polite not to ask me what I'm doing knocking on your door at nine in the morning.” Honoria sipped her coffee, paused, sipped again. “This is quite exceptional.”

“I'm glad you like it.” Dora waited as Honoria added a dab of blackberry jelly to a scone. “Actually, it's harder for me not to ask you about the painting.”

“Good.” Honoria let the scone lay on her tongue, sighing a little as she swallowed. “My dear, my mother would have been delighted with you. I haven't tasted better since she died.”

“I'd be happy to give you the recipe for your cook.”

“I'd appreciate it. Now.” She sat back, balancing her cup and saucer with the uncanny skill only women of a certain class seem to acquire. “I believe you and I can trade information.”

“Oh? I don't think I understand.”

“My grandson asks me to keep a certain painting in my home, and to allow an old friend to work on this painting. I'm to do this in the strictest confidence, and with police protection.” She smiled, inclined her head. “There is no explanation accompanying the request, of course.”

“Of course.” Returning the smile, Dora leaned forward. “Tell me, Mrs. Rodgers, why do we go along with him?”

“Call me Ria—my husband always did. We go along with him, dear child, because we care too much not to.” A delicate pause. “Am I right?”

“Yes. Yes, you are. That doesn't make
him
right.” Dora's earlier irritation returned in full force. “I'll tell you everything I know, Ria, then you can tell me the results.”

“Precisely what I had in mind.”

Dora started at the beginning. Jed would have several logical reasons, she assumed, why his grandmother should be spared the knowledge and the concern that accompanied it. Yet she rationalized that he had already involved Honoria, completely voluntarily. She was only providing the background as a matter of courtesy.

Honoria listened without interruption. She sipped her coffee, her reaction showing only in the darkening of her eyes, a thinning of her mouth, the occasional lift of a well-shaped eyebrow. There was temper, but there was also breeding.

And here, Dora thought, was where Jed had inherited his control.

“This has been terrible for you,” Honoria said at length.

“Mrs. Lyle's the worst. No matter what Jed says, I feel responsible.”

“Of course you do.” This was said staunchly, and made Dora feel more comforted than a dozen polite denials. “You wouldn't be the woman you are if you didn't. This DiCarlo . . .” The name came through Honoria's lips ripe with cultured distaste. “Do the authorities have any idea where he might be hiding?”

“I don't think so.” In a frustrated gesture, Dora lifted her hands, let them fall. “If they do, they haven't found it necessary to mention it to me.”

“So like men. Do you know, I believe it goes back to when they had to crawl out of the cave and hunt for meat with rocks and clubs. The hunter.” She smiled when she said it, with a kind of cool indulgence Dora admired. “Women, of course, were left in the cave to give birth in the dirt and the dark, to cook the meat on a dung fire and tan the hides. But men still thought they knew best.”

“Jed hasn't even told me what's going to be done with the painting.”

“There, you see?” Her point proven, Honoria refilled her coffee cup, then Dora's. “I wish I could tell you what his plans are, but he hasn't deemed it necessary to share them with me either. I can, however, tell you about the painting itself. It's brilliant.”

Her face shone with emotion. “Though there are tests to be run, there's no doubt as to its authenticity. Not to me. It's one of his water lily studies, no doubt painted at Giverny.” Her eyes went misty with dreams. Her voice softened like a woman speaking of a lover. “Ah, the light—ethereal and
lyrical. That soft, seductive power that pulls you into the painting, makes you believe you can smell the damp flowers and still water.” Her eyes cleared again. “He painted more than seventeen in that series.”

“I know. Coincidentally, he's my favorite impressionist painter. I never thought I'd own one, even indirectly.”

“I have one—a gift from my husband on our tenth anniversary. One of Monet's garden studies. Side by side, those paintings are breathtaking. Before the police took it away, I stood in my bedroom, looking at them, and weeping. I wish I could believe this DiCarlo had stolen it because of its beauty and not for its monetary value. That would make it almost understandable.”

“You'd think they'd have let me see it,” Dora complained. “I did buy it. But no, I wake up this morning and the bed's empty. Jed's gone off somewhere—and does he let me know where, or what he's up to? No. Not even a note under a refrigerator magnet. It seems to me—” She broke off, appalled. This was Jed's grandmother. His
grandmother.
“I beg your pardon,” she managed.

“Not at all.” To prove it, Honoria tossed back her head and laughed. “Oh no, not at all. I'm delighted. I do hope, my dear, that you'll give him hell when he returns. He's always needed it from someone who loved him. God knows he took enough of it from those who didn't. It's not at all the same thing, you know.”

“No, I suppose not.” Most of her embarrassment faded, but the flush remained. “Mrs. Rodgers—Ria, I wouldn't want you to think that I usually . . . develop intimate relationships with my tenants.”

“You still expect me to be shocked.” Thoroughly enjoying Dora's reaction, Honoria smiled and helped herself to a second scone. “I'll tell you why I married Jed's grandfather, shall I? He was an incredibly handsome man—very strong and blond and physically exciting. In other words, I was hot for him.”

She nibbled delicately at the scone, her eyes alive with amusement. “Fortunately, Jed has inherited many of his grandfather's physical traits and none of his emotional ones. Walter Skimmerhorn was a cold, often cruel and incessantly boring man. All of which are unforgivable flaws in a husband. It took me less than a year of marriage to realize my mistake. To my regret, it required a considerably longer amount of time to correct it.”

And the bitter dregs of that resentment still festered.

“You, on the other hand,” Honoria continued, “have already discovered there is much, much more to my grandson than an excellent physique. If I were to give any advice to the young people of today in such matters, it would be that they live together—as you and Jed are essentially doing now—before marriage.”

“We're not—” Dora's heart gave a quick and, to her embarrassment, decisively female flutter. “I hope I haven't given you the impression that we're thinking of marriage.”

“Not at all,” Honoria said lightly. Giving in to sentiment, she imagined the beautiful great-grandchildren Jed and Dora would make for her. “Now, Jed tells me your parents are Liberty Theater. I've enjoyed many productions there. I hope I'll be able to meet them.”

“Ah . . .” Before Dora could answer, they were interrupted by another knock on the door. “Excuse me a minute.”

More than a little frazzled by the mention of marriage, and the neat segue into her family, Dora opened the door. Jed stood on the other side of the threshold. He took one long look, running his gaze from her bare feet to the top of her tousled hair. She looked rumpled and sexy and deliciously flushed.

“Conroy.” He snatched her to him and before she could speak had engaged her mouth in a hot, steamy kiss. “You got anything on under there?”