Hidden Riches (31 page)

“But I am thinking.” She lifted the whiskey, tossed it back in one burning swallow. “And what I think is, you aren't the one who should talk to Finley.” She held out the glass for a refill. “I am.”

“Y
ou're out of your mind.”

“That is a perfectly sane, rational statement.” Since Jed made no move to share, Dora took the bottle and refilled her glass herself. “And if you'd put that male ego on hold a minute, you'd see why.”

“It has nothing to do with ego.” Although it did, however slightly, and that fact burned the hell out of him. “It has to do with simple common sense. You're in no position to tackle something like this.”

“On the contrary.” She was warming up to the idea now, and began moving around the room, swirling her whiskey, relishing the part to be played. “I'm in the perfect position. I, after all, was the victim of his employee. I, the baffled innocent, will appeal to Finley's sympathies if he, in turn, is innocent and, since I too am a collector, to his imagination if he's guilty. In short, Skimmerhorn—” She circled
back and tapped her glass to his. “This part is tailor-made for me.”

“It's not a damn audition, Conroy.”

“But it is, essentially. Lord, when are you going to get some furniture in here?” In lieu of a decent chair, she scooted up to sit on the table. “What was your plan, Captain, to barge into his offices, gun blasting?”

“Don't be any more ridiculous than necessary.”

“I thought not. You would, if I may interpret the scene, request a meeting to discuss the ugly situation informally, possibly soliciting his help to locate DiCarlo?”

She lifted a brow, waiting for his denial or assent, and got neither. Undaunted, she plowed ahead. “Meanwhile, you'd be looking for a chink in his armor, if indeed he has any armor or chinks. While doing so, you'd get a firsthand view of his operation, his style, and develop an informed opinion as to his culpability.”

“You sound like a freaking lawyer,” he muttered. “I hate lawyers.”

“That's the cop talking. I have some very good friends who are lawyers—and my father was an excellent Clarence Darrow in a production of
Inherit the Wind.
Now, let's see.” She crossed her legs; the robe shifted open over long smooth thighs. “How would I play this?”

“You're not, Conroy.” Because he felt something essential slipping neatly out of his fingers, he spoke with a snap and caught her chin in his hand. “You are not going.”

“Yes, I am,” she said, unperturbed. “Because we both know it's the perfect solution.” Smiling, she took his hand off her chin then kissed it. “You can come with me. Keep me away from Rodeo Drive.”

There was only one way to deal with her, Jed thought, and that was calmly. “Dora, I don't have a handle on this guy. We can't get any hard data. He might be some nice, grandfatherly type who collects stamps in his spare time, and has nothing to do with smuggling. Or DiCarlo might just have been the trigger on his gun. Walking onto his turf
is risky, and I'm not taking risks with you.”

“Why?” She said it softly. “One would almost think you care.”

He jammed his frustrated hands in his pockets. “Damn it, you know I care.”

“I know you want, but caring is entirely different. Still, it's nice to hear.”

“Don't circle around me on this.” She wasn't going to lure him into a dangerous discussion of feelings again. “The point is Finley. If he's involved, he's going to take one look at you and see through that pretty face of yours like plate glass.”

“My, my, you tell me you care and that I'm pretty in one night. My heart swells.”

“I ought to smack you,” he said through clenched teeth.

“But you won't.” She smiled and held out a hand. “Lots of bark and little bite, that's you, Skimmerhorn. Let's get some sleep. We can hash this out in the morning.”

“There's nothing to hash. I'm going. You're not.”

She let her hand fall away. “You don't trust me. That's it, isn't it?” She clamped her teeth over her bottom lip to still the trembling, but her voice thickened and shook even as her eyes filled.

“It's not a matter of trust.” He dragged a hand out of his pocket, through his hair. “Don't take it so personally.”

“How else can I take it?” The first tear spilled over, ran a lonely trail down her cheek. Her eyes were glistening with more, combined with fragile hurt. “Don't you understand that I need to do something? That I can't just sit in the background after me and my home have been violated this way? I can't bear it, Jed. I can't bear having you think of me as some helpless victim who only gets in your way.”

“Stop it.” Her tears weakened him, unmanned him. “Come on, baby, don't.” He awkwardly lifted a hand to her hair. “I can't stand that.” Gently he kissed her quivering lips. “I don't think of you as helpless.”

“Useless, then,” she said on a hitching sob.

“No.” He brushed her tears away with his thumbs and was nearly ready to beg. “You're not trained to do this. If he suspects anything, the whole sting could fall apart before it gets started.”

She sniffled, pressed her face to his throat. “Do you suspect—?”

“What?”

“Do you suspect?” she demanded in a perfectly controlled voice. Leaning back, she grinned at him without a trace of remorse. “Fell for it, didn't you?” Laughing, she patted his cheek while he stared at her through slitted and infuriated eyes. “Don't feel too stupid, Skimmerhorn. I told you once I was good.” She lifted her glass again to toast herself. “And I am very, very good. And that was just an impromptu performance.”

“Maybe I will smack you. You ever turn on tears again like that, I swear I will.”

“Made you feel like a heel, didn't I?” She sighed, lustily. “Sometimes I do miss the stage.” Then she shrugged. “But not very often. Be assured, Captain, that our Mr. Finley will see exactly what I want him to see. I'll play him like an accordion.”

She could do it. He hated the fact that he was certain she could do it perfectly. “And if I lose my mind enough to consider agreeing to this harebrained idea, you'd do exactly as you were told?”

“No—but I'd try to do exactly as I was told. It's just a fishing expedition, Jed.”

He'd thought so, but he preferred to know his water, and bait his own hook. “I don't want you hurt.”

She softened all over, eyes, mouth, heart. “That's one of the nicest things you've ever said to me.”

“If he hurts you, I'd kill him.”

Her easy smile vanished. “Don't put that weight on my shoulders. Okay? It scares me.”

He lifted her off the table, set her on her feet. “Conroy, I said I didn't think you were helpless, and that I didn't
think you were useless, but I never told you what I think you are.”

“No, you didn't.” She grimaced, braced.

“Important,” he said simply, and melted her heart. “Very important.”

 

By noon the next day, Dora felt at least one part of her life was shifting back into normal gear. The shop was open for business. The first sale warmed her soul so that she gave her customer an impulsive ten percent off. When Lea walked in to help with the afternoon flow, Dora greeted her with a fierce hug.

Laughing, Lea untangled herself. “What's all this? Did you win the lottery?”

“Better. We're open.”

Lea peeled off her coat and fluffed her hair. “You never explained why we were closed.”

“Too complicated,” Dora said breezily. “I needed a day or two of downtime.”

“That break-in bothered you more than you let on.” Lea's nod was self-satisfied. “I knew it.”

“I guess it did. Anyway, we've got a couple of browsers, and I just bought those tea cookies from the bakery again—the ones with the chocolate filling.”

Lea took a deep breath. “How am I supposed to lose the four pounds I gained during the holidays?”

“Willpower.”

“Right. Oh, Mom said to ask you about the painting.”

The cookie box nearly slipped out of Dora's fingers. “Painting?”

“Something about you lent her a painting and had to take it back.” Lea gave up on willpower and chose a frosted cookie. “She's thinking about buying it for Dad for Valentine's Day. Seems he really took a shine to it.”

“Oh . . . I, ah, sold it.” At least that was true, she reminded herself. She still had Jed's $80 tucked in her jewelry box like love letters.

“Are you okay?” Lea's keen eyes scanned Dora's face. “You look a little flustered.”

“Hmm? No, I'm fine. Just getting back in the swing. Actually, I'm a little scattered. I may have to go to LA for a couple of days.”

“What for?”

“There's an import business out there that I may want to cultivate. I don't want to close the shop again.” No reason to, she assured herself. Since Brent was still pulling strings to ensure police protection.

“Don't worry about it. Terri and I can keep things going.” The phone on the counter rang twice. Lea raised a brow. “Want me to get that?”

“No.” Dora shook off the guilt and lifted the receiver that was an inch away from her hand. “Good afternoon, Dora's Parlor.”

“I'd like to speak to Miss Isadora Conroy, please.”

“Speaking.”

“Miss Conroy.” From his desk in Los Angeles, Winesap turned to his meticulously rehearsed notes. “This is, ah, Francis Petroy.”

“Yes, Mr. Petroy,” Dora said as Lea turned to greet a customer.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you, but I was given your name and number by a Mrs. Helen Owings of Front Royal, Virginia.”

“Yes.” Dora's fingers tightened on the receiver. “What can I do for you?”

“I hope it's what we can do for each other.” Winesap read the words “genial chuckle” in his notes and did his best imitation of one. “It concerns a painting you bought at auction in December. A Billingsly.”

All moisture evaporated in her mouth. “Yes, I know the piece. An abstract.”

“Exactly. As it happens, I'm a collector of abstract work. I specialize in unknown and emerging artists—in a regretfully small way, you understand.”

“Of course.”

“I was unable to attend that particular auction—a family emergency. It gave me some hope when Mrs. Owings informed me that the painting had been sold to a dealer, rather than an art collector.”

“Actually,” Dora said, playing for time. “I'm a little of both.”

“Oh dear.” He shuffled through his papers. Nothing in his copious notes addressed that particular response. “Oh dear.”

“But I'm always interested in a legitimate offer, Mr. Petroy. Perhaps you'd like to come in and see the painting. It would have to be sometime late next week, I'm afraid.” She paused and mimed flipping through an appointment book. “My schedule's rather hectic until then.”

“That would be excellent. Really excellent.” Relieved, Winesap mopped his sweaty neck with a handkerchief. “What day would be good for you, Miss Conroy?”

“I could fit you in on Thursday, say at two?”

“Perfect.” Hurried, Winesap scribbled down the date. “I hope you'll hold the painting until then. I'd hate to miss the opportunity.”

“Oh, I'd hate you to miss it, too.” She smiled grimly at the wall. “I promise, it won't go anywhere until we have the chance to discuss terms. Do you have a number where I can reach you in case something comes up?”

“Certainly.” As his notes instructed, Winesap recited the number for one of Finley's fronts in New Jersey. “During business hours,” he said. “I'm afraid I keep my private number unlisted.”

“I understand perfectly. Next Thursday then, Mr. Petroy.”

She hung up, almost too furious to enjoy the sense of elation. He thought she was an idiot, Dora fumed. Well, DiCarlo or Finley or Petroy or whoever the hell you are, you're in for a rude surprise.

“Lea! I have to go out for an hour. If Jed comes in, tell him I have to talk to him.”

“Okay, but where—” Lea broke off, fisting her hands on her hips as she stared at the closing door.

 

She should have called ahead. Dora turned back into the parking lot after a fruitless trip to the police station. Lieutenant Chapman was in the field. Sounded as though he were out hunting pheasant, she thought grumpily.

How was she supposed to tell anyone she'd made contact if there wasn't anyone around to tell? Then she spotted Jed's car and allowed herself a smug smile. He was about to learn that he wasn't the only one who could think on his feet.

She found him in the storeroom, calmly painting shelves.

“There you are. I hate to use a cliché, but where's a cop when you need one?”

He continued to paint. “If you'd needed a cop, you should have called nine-one-one.”

“I went to the source instead.” Wanting to prolong the excitement, she peeled off her coat. “But Brent was out. How come they call it a field? I don't recall passing through any fields in Philadelphia.”

“Just our little way of impressing civilians. Why did you need Brent?”

“Because.” She paused for drama. “I made contact.”

“With what?”

“With whom, Skimmerhorn. Don't be dense. I got a call from Mr. Petroy—only I don't think it was Mr. Petroy. It could have been DiCarlo, but the voice didn't really jibe. Maybe he disguised it, but I'm pretty good with voices. He could have had someone else make the call,” she said, considering. “Or it could have been Finley, but—”

“Sit down, Conroy.” Jed laid the brush across the top of the paint can. “Try a Jack Webb.”

“A Jack Webb? Oh.” Her eyes brightened. “Just the facts. I get it.”

“You're a real whip. Sit.”

“Okay.” She settled and imagined herself filing a report. As a result, she related the entire phone conversation
precisely, thoroughly and without embellishments. “How's that?” she asked when she was done.