Hidden Riches (9 page)

“Go away,” he muttered, closed his eyes and tuned out.

S
he was right. He felt terrible. The last thing Jed wanted was someone pounding on his door while he was trying to drown himself in the shower. Cursing, he twisted off the taps, wrapped a towel around his waist and dripped his way to the door. He yanked it open.

“What the hell do you want?”

“Good morning, Skimmerhorn.” Dora breezed in with a wicker basket over her arm. “I see you're your usual bright and cheerful self.”

She was wearing some sort of short-skirted outfit in vivid blues and gold that made his eyes throb. “Get lost.”

“My, we are feeling nasty this morning.” Unoffended, she unpacked the basket. Inside was a red plaid thermos, a mason jar filled with some sort of vile-looking orange liquid and a snowy-white napkin folded around two flaky
croissants. “Since my father instigated this little affair, I thought I should see to your welfare this morning. We'll need a glass, a cup and saucer, a plate.” When he didn't move, she tilted her head. “Fine, I'll get them. Why don't you go put some clothes on? You made it clear that you're not interested in me on a physical level, and the sight of your damp, half-naked body might send me into an unbridled sexual frenzy.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he ground his teeth. “Cute, Conroy. Real cute.” But he turned and strode off into the bedroom. When he came back wearing gray sweats torn at the knee, she'd set a neat breakfast on his picnic table.

“Had any aspirin yet?”

“I was working on it.”

“These first, then.” She offered him three pills. “Take them with this. Just gulp it down.”

He scowled at the sickly orange liquid she'd poured into a tumbler. “What the hell is it?”

“Salvation. Trust me.”

Because he doubted he could feel much worse, he swallowed the pills with two big gulps of Dora's remedy. “Christ. It tastes like embalming fluid.”

“Oh, I imagine it's the same principle. Still, I can guarantee the results. Dad swears by it, and believe me, he's the expert. Try the coffee—it won't do much for the hangover, but you'll be fully awake to enjoy it.”

Because his eyes were threatening to fall out, he pressed the heels of his hands against them. “What was in that flask?”

“Quentin Conroy's secret weapon. He has a still in the basement where he experiments like a mad scientist. Dad likes to drink.”

“Now there's news.”

“I know I should disapprove, but it's hard to. He doesn't hurt anyone. I'm not even sure he hurts himself.” She broke off a corner of one of the croissants and nibbled.
“He doesn't get surly or arrogant or nasty with it. He'd never consider getting behind the wheel of a car—or operating heavy machinery.” She shrugged. “Some men hunt or collect stamps. Dad drinks. Feeling better?”

“I'll live.”

“That's fine, then. I've got to go open up. You'd be amazed at how many people shop on Christmas Eve.” She started out, paused with her hand on the knob. “Oh, and the banister looks good. Thanks. Let me know when you feel up to hammering together some shelves. And don't worry.” She flashed him a smile. “I don't want to sleep with you either.”

Dora closed the door quietly and hummed her way down the hall.

 

DiCarlo was feeling fine. His luck was back; the rented Porsche was tearing up 95. Neatly boxed on the seat beside him rode a bronze eagle and a reproduction of the Statue of Liberty, both easily purchased from a novelty shop just outside of Washington, D.C.

It had gone slick as spit, DiCarlo thought now. He had walked into the shop, done some nominal browsing, then had walked out again, the proud owner of two pieces of American kitsch. After a quick detour into Philadelphia to pick up the next two items on his list, he would head into New York. All things being equal, he would make it home by nine o'clock, with plenty of time for holiday celebrations.

The day after Christmas he would take up his schedule again. At this pace, he figured he would have all of Mr. Finley's merchandise in hand well before deadline.

He might even earn a bonus out of it.

Tapping his fingers along with the dance track, he dialed Finley's private number on the car phone.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Finley. DiCarlo.”

“And do you have something of interest to tell me?”

“Yes, sir.” He all but sang it. “I've recovered two more items from D.C.”

“The transactions went smoothly?”

“Smooth as silk. I'm on my way to Philadelphia now. Two more items are in a shop there. I should arrive by three at the latest.”

“Then I'll wish you Merry Christmas now, Mr. DiCarlo. I'll be difficult to reach until the twenty-sixth. Naturally, if you have something to report, you'll leave a message with Winesap.”

“I'll keep in touch, Mr. Finley. Enjoy your holiday.”

Finley hung up the phone but continued to stand on his balcony, watching the smog clog the air over LA. The etui hung around his neck on a fine gold chain.

 

DiCarlo did arrive in Philadelphia by three. His luck was holding steady as he walked into Dora's Parlor fifteen minutes before closing. The first thing he noticed was a statuesque redhead wearing a green elf's cap.

Terri Starr, Dora's assistant, and a devoted member of the Liberty Players, beamed at DiCarlo.

“Merry Christmas,” she said in a voice as clear as holiday bells. “You've just caught us. We're closing early today.”

DiCarlo tried out a sheepish smile. “I bet you hate us eleventh-hour shoppers.”

“Are you kidding? I love them.” She'd already spotted the Porsche at the curb and was calculating ending the business day with a last whopping sale. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Actually, yes.” He took a look around the shop, hoping he'd spot either the painting or the china hound quickly. “I'm on my way home, and I have an aunt who collects statues of animals. Dogs in particular.”

“I might be able to help you out.” Topping six foot in her spiked heels, Terri moved through the shop like a staff sergeant inspecting troops. She'd sized up DiCarlo's suit and
overcoat as well as his car, and led him toward the jade.

“This is one of my favorite pieces.” She opened a curved glass cabinet and took out an apple-green carved Foo dog, one of their most expensive objects. “Gorgeous, isn't he?”

“Yes, but I'm afraid my aunt's tastes aren't quite so sophisticated.” He let amusement play around his eyes. “You know how these little ladies are.”

“Are you kidding? You can't run a curio shop and not know. Let's see, then.” With some regret Terri replaced the jade. “We've got a couple of nice cocker spaniels in plaster.”

“I'll take a look. Would it be all right if I just browsed around? I know you'd like to get out of here, and I might see something that strikes me as being Aunt Maria.”

“You go right ahead. Take your time.”

DiCarlo saw the plaster cockers. He saw cloisonné poodles and blown-glass retrievers. There were plastic dalmations and brass Chihuahuas. But nowhere did he see the china hound.

He kept his eye peeled for the painting as well. There were dozens of framed prints, faded portraits, advertising posters. There was no abstract in an ebony frame.

“I think I've found the perfect—” Terri backed up two steps when DiCarlo whirled around. She was a woman who prided herself on reading expressions. For a moment there, she'd thought she'd read murder in his. “I—sorry. Did I startle you?”

His smile came so quickly, wiping out the icy gleam in his eyes, she decided she'd imagined it. “Yes, you did. Guess my mind was wandering. And what have we here?”

“It's Staffordshire pottery, a mama English sheepdog and her puppy. It's kind of sweet, isn't it?”

“Right up Aunt Maria's alley.” DiCarlo kept the pleasant smile in place even after he'd spotted the four-figure price tag. “I think she'd love it,” he said, hoping to buy time by having it wrapped. “I had something a little different in my mind, but this is Aunt Maria all over.”

“Cash or charge?”

“Charge.” He pulled out a credit card. “She used to have this mutt, you see,” he continued as he followed Terri to the counter. “A brown-and-white spotted dog who curled up on the rug and slept twenty hours out of twenty-four. Aunt Maria adored that dog. I was hoping to find something that looked like him.”

“That's so sweet.” Terri nestled the Staffordshire in tissue paper. “You must be a very considerate nephew.”

“Well, Aunt Maria helped raise me.”

“It's too bad you weren't in a few days ago. We had a piece very much like you're talking about. In china, a spotted hound, curled up asleep. It was only in the shop a day before we sold it.”

“Sold it?” DiCarlo said between smiling teeth. “That's too bad.”

“It wasn't nearly as fine a piece as the one you've just bought, Mr. DiCarlo,” she added after a glance at his credit card. “Believe me, your aunt's going to love you come Christmas morning.”

“I'm sure you're right. I notice you also carry art.”

“Some. Mostly posters and old family portraits from estate sales.”

“Nothing modern, then? I'm doing some redecorating.”

“Afraid not. We've got some stuff piled in the storeroom in back, but I haven't noticed any paintings.”

While she wrote up his bill, DiCarlo drummed his fingers on the counter and considered. He had to find out who had bought the dog. If it hadn't been broad daylight, with a wide display window at his back, he might have stuck his gun under the clerk's pretty chin and forced her to look up the information for him.

Of course, then he'd have to kill her.

He glanced at the window behind him. There wasn't much traffic, vehicular or pedestrian. But he shook his head. A young girl wrapped in a parka zoomed by on Rollerblades. It wasn't worth the risk.

“Just sign here.” Terri passed him the sales slip and his card. “You're all set, Mr. DiCarlo. I hope you and your aunt have a terrific Christmas.”

Because she watched him through the window, DiCarlo set the box carefully in the trunk of the car, then waved cheerfully before climbing in. He slid smoothly away from the curb.

He'd go somewhere for a late lunch. When it was dark, when the shop was empty, he'd be back.

 

Dora gave Jed's door her best businesslike rap. She knew he was going to growl at her—it couldn't be helped. The fact was, she'd gotten used to the way he snarled and spat. She didn't look forward to it, but she'd gotten used to it.

He didn't disappoint her.

His short-sleeved sweatshirt was damp with sweat. His forearms glistened with it. She might have taken a moment to admire the basic masculinity, but she was too busy studying the scowl on his face.

Jed gripped the ends of the towel he'd hooked around his neck. “What do you want now?”

“Sorry to disturb you.” She peeked over his shoulder and spotted his weight equipment scattered over the living area. “When you're so involved with building muscles, but my phone's out of order. I need to make a call.”

“There's a phone booth on the corner.”

“You're such a sweet guy, Skimmerhorn. Why hasn't some lucky woman snapped you up?”

“I beat them off with a stick.”

“Oh, I bet you do. Be a pal. It's a local call.”

For a minute, she thought he was going to shut the door in her face. Again. But he swung the door wider and stepped back. “Make it fast,” he told her, and stalked into the kitchen.

To give her privacy? Dora wondered. Hardly. Her judgment proved correct when he came back in glugging Gatorade from the bottle. Dora juggled the phone, swore
softly, then dropped the receiver back on the hook.

“Yours is out, too.”

“Not so surprising, since we're in the same building.” He'd left his door open, as she had. From her apartment he could hear the strains of music. Christmas music this time. But it was something that sounded like a medieval choir, and intrigued rather than annoyed.

Unfortunately, Dora had exactly the same effect on him.

“You always dress like that to talk on the phone?”

She was wearing a slithery jumpsuit in silver with strappy spiked heels. A chain of stars hung at each ear. “I have a couple of parties to drop in on. How about you? Are you spending Christmas Eve lifting weights?”

“I don't like parties.”

“No?” She shrugged and the silver silk whispered invitingly at the movement. “I love them. The noise and the food and the gossip. Of course, I enjoy having conversations with other human beings, so that helps.”

“Since I haven't got any wassail handy to offer you, why don't you run along?” He tossed the towel aside and picked up a barbell. “Make sure your date doesn't hit the Christmas punch.”

“I'm not going with anyone, and since I don't want to have to worry about how often I dip into the Christmas punch, I was calling a cab.” She sat on the arm of the couch, frowning as she watched Jed lift his weights. She shouldn't have felt sorry for him, she mused. He was the last person on earth that inspired sympathy. And yet she hated to imagine him spending the evening alone, with barbells. “Why don't you come with me?”

The long, silent look he sent her had her hurrying on.

“It's not a proposition, Skimmerhorn. Just a couple of parties where you hang out and make nice.”

“I don't make nice.”

“I can see you're rusty, but it is Christmas Eve. A time of fellowship. Good will among men. You might have heard of it.”

“I heard rumors.”

Dora waited a beat. “You forgot bah-humbug.”

“Take off, Conroy.”

“Well, that's a step up from this morning. People will say we're in love.” She sighed, rose. “Enjoy your sweat, Skimmerhorn, and the coal I'm sure Santa's going to leave in your stocking.” She stopped, tilted her head. “What's that noise?”