Hidden Riches (8 page)

He was forced to work outside because Dora didn’t have ten feet of unoccupied space anywhere in her building. Since her idea of tools had run to a single screwdriver and a ball peen hammer with a taped handle, he’d had to drop by Brent’s to borrow some. Of course, Mary Pat had grilled him on everything from his eating habits to his love life while plying him with Snickerdoodles. It had taken him nearly an hour to escape with his sanity and a power saw.

The events of the day had taught Jed one important lesson: He would keep to himself from this point on, just as he had planned. When a man didn’t like people to begin with, there was no rational reason to mix with them.

At least there was no one to bother him in the rear of the building, and he enjoyed working with his hands, liked the feel of wood under them. Once, he’d considered adding a small workshop onto the back of the house in Chestnut Hill. A place where he could have tinkered and built when the job gave him time. But that had been before
Donny Speck. Before the investigation that had become an obsession.

And, of course, it had been before Elaine had paid the price.

Before Jed could switch off his mind, he saw it again. The silver Mercedes sedan sitting sedately under the carport. He saw the dull gleam of pearls around Elaine’s neck and remembered inanely that they had been a birthday gift from the first of her three husbands. He saw her eyes, the same brilliant blue as his own—perhaps the only family trait they had shared—lift and look curiously in his direction. He saw the faint annoyance in those eyes and saw himself racing across the manicured lawn, between the well-tended rosebushes that had smelled almost violently of summer.

The sun had glinted off the chrome, speared into his eyes. A bird high up in one of the trio of apple trees had trilled insanely.

Then the explosion had ripped through the air with a hot fist that had punched Jed back, sent him flying away toward the roses, where the petals were sheared off by the force of the blast.

The silver Mercedes was a ball of flame with a belch of black smoke stinking upward into the summer sky. He thought he heard her scream. It could have been the screech of rending metal. He hoped it had been. He hoped she’d felt nothing after her fingers had twisted the key in the ignition and triggered the bomb.

Swearing, Jed attacked the new banister with Brent’s power sander. It was over. Elaine was dead and couldn’t be brought back. Donny Speck was dead, thank Christ. And however much Jed might have wished it, he couldn’t kill the man again.

And he was exactly where he wanted to be. Alone.

“Ho, ho, ho.”

Distracted by the hearty voice behind him, Jed switched off the sander. He turned, his eyes narrowed behind his
tinted aviator glasses as he studied, with equal parts annoyance and curiosity, the pink-cheeked Santa.

“You’re a couple days early, aren’t you?”

“Ho, ho, ho,” Santa said again, and patted his comfortable belly. “Looks like you could use a little Christmas cheer, son.”

Resigned to the interruption, Jed took out a cigarette. “Mr. Conroy, right?” He watched Santa’s face fall. “It’s the eyes,” Jed told him, and struck a match. They were Dora’s eyes, Jed thought. Big and brown and full of secret jokes.

“Oh.” Quentin considered, then brightened. “I suppose a policeman is trained to see past disguises, the same way an actor is trained to assume them. I have, of course, played many upholders of law and order in my career.”

“Right.”

“In keeping with the season, I’ve been entertaining the children at Tidy Tots Day Care.” He stroked his silky white beard. “A small engagement, but a satisfying one, as it gives me the opportunity to play one of the world’s most beloved characters to an audience of true believers. Children are actors, you see, and actors, children.”

Amused despite himself, Jed nodded. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“I see Izzy’s put you to work.”

“Izzy?”

“My darling daughter.” Quentin wiggled his eyebrows and winked. “Pretty thing, isn’t she?”

“She’s all right.”

“Cooks, too. Don’t know where she gets it from. Not her mother.” Conspiratorily, Quentin leaned closer. “Not to complain, but boiling an egg is a culinary triumph for her. Of course, she has other talents.”

“I’m sure she does. Dora’s inside.”

“Naturally. A dedicated businesswoman, my firstborn, not at all like the rest of us in that aspect—though, of course, she could have had a brilliant career on the stage.
Truly brilliant,” he said with some regret. “But she chose the world of retail. Genes are a peculiar thing, don’t you think?”

“I haven’t given it a lot of thought.” A lie, he thought. A basic one. He’d spent a great deal of his life thinking about inherited traits. “Listen, I need to finish this before I lose the light.”

“Why don’t I give you a hand?” Quentin said with the unexpected streak of practicality that made him a good director as well as an actor.

Jed studied the padded belly, the red suit and flowing white cotton beard. “Don’t you have elves to handle this kind of thing?”

Quentin laughed merrily, his booming baritone echoing on the windy air. “Everything’s unionized these days, boy. Can’t get the little buggers to do anything not in the contract.”

Jed’s lips quirked as he turned on the sander again. “Once I finish here, you can help me put it up.”

“Delighted.”

A patient man, Quentin sat on the bottom step. He’d always liked to watch manual labor. “Watch” being the key word. Fortunately, a modest inheritance had kept him from starving while pursuing his acting career. He’d met his wife of thirty years during a production of
The Tempest,
he as Sebastian and she as Miranda. They had entered the brave new world of matrimony and had traveled from stage to stage, with considerable success, until settling in Philadelphia and founding the Liberty Players.

Now, at the comfortable age of fifty-three—forty-nine on his résumé—he had whipped the Liberty Players into a respected troupe who performed everything from Ibsen to Neil Simon at a steady profit.

Perhaps because his life had been easy, Quentin believed in happily ever after. He’d seen his younger daughter tidily wed, was watching his son staunchly carrying the family name onto the stage. That left only Dora.

Quentin had decided that this healthy young man with the unreadable eyes was the perfect solution. Smiling to himself, he pulled a flask out of Santa’s pillow belly, took a quick nip. Then another.

“Well done, boy,” Quentin said half an hour later as he heaved himself up to pat the banister. “Smooth as a lady’s cheek. And it was a pleasure to watch you work. How does one secure it in place?”

“Take a hold,” Jed suggested. “Carry your end up to the top.”

“This is fascinating.” The silver bells on Quentin’s boots jangled as he climbed the stairs. “Not that I’m a complete novice, you see. I have assisted in the building of sets. We once constructed a rather spiffy Jolly Roger for a production of
Peter Pan.
” Quentin twirled his white moustache, and a look of menace gleamed in his eye. “I played Hook, naturally.”

“I’d have bet on it. Watch yourself.” Making use of Brent’s electric drill, Jed secured banister to post. Throughout the procedure, Quentin kept up a running conversation. Jed realized it was as easy to tune him out as it was to tune out the background music in a dentist’s office.

“As easy as that.” Back at the base of the steps, Quentin shook the rail and beamed. “Steady as a rock, too. I hope my Izzy appreciates you.” He gave Jed a friendly slap on the back. “Why don’t you join us for Christmas dinner? My Ophelia puts on an impressive production.”

“I’ve got plans.”

“Ah, of course.” Quentin’s easy smile didn’t reveal his thoughts. He’d done his research on Jed Skimmerhorn much more thoroughly than anyone knew. He was well aware that Jed had no family other than a grandmother. “Perhaps New Year’s, then. We always throw a party at the theater. The Liberty. You’d be welcome.”

“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

“In the meantime, I think we both deserve a little reward for our labors.”

He pulled out the flask again, winking at Jed as he poured whiskey into the silver top. He handed the makeshift cup to Jed.

Since he couldn’t think of any reason not to, Jed tossed back the whiskey. He managed to choke back a gasp. The stuff was atomic.

“By God!” Quentin slapped Jed’s back again. “I like seeing a man drink like a man. Have another. Here’s to full white breasts that give a man’s head sweet rest.”

Jed drank again and let the whiskey work up a nice buffer against the cold. “Are you sure Santa should be drinking?”

“Dear boy, how do you think we get through those long, cold nights at the North Pole?

“We’ll be doing
South Pacific
next. Nice change, all those palm trees. We try to fit a couple of musicals into our schedule each year. Crowd pleasers. Have to have Izzy bring you by.”

He tipped more into Jed’s cup and began a rousing rendition of “There Is Nothin’ Like a Dame.”

It must be the whiskey, Jed decided. That would explain why he was sitting outside in the cold at dusk, finding nothing particularly odd about watching Santa belt out a show tune.

As he downed another capful, he heard the door open behind him and looked around lazily to see Dora standing at the top of the steps, her hands fisted on her hips.

Christ, she had great legs, he thought.

She spared Jed one withering glance. “I should have known you’d encourage him.”

“I was minding my own business.”

“Sitting on the back steps drinking whiskey with a man in a Santa suit? Some business.”

Because his tongue had thickened considerably, Jed enunciated with care. “I fixed the banister.”

“Bully for you.” Dora strode down the steps and caught her father’s arm just as Quentin was executing a fancy spin. “Show’s over.”

“Izzy!” Delighted, Quentin kissed her lustily and gave her a bear hug. “Your young man and I were seeing to carpentry repairs.”

“I can see that. You both look very busy at the moment. Let’s go inside, Dad.” She took the flask and shoved it into Jed’s hand. “I’ll come back for you,” she said under her breath, and dragged her father upstairs.

“I was minding my own business,” Jed said again, and meticulously capped the flask before slipping it into his back pocket. By the time Dora returned, he was loading up Brent’s tools with the care of a man packing fine china.

“So.” He slammed the trunk, leaned heavily against it. “Where’s Santa?”

“Sleeping. We have one rule around here, Skimmerhorn. No drinking on the job.”

Jed straightened, then wisely braced himself against the car again. “I was finished.” Blearily, he gestured toward the banister. “See?”

“Yeah.” She sighed, shook her head. “I shouldn’t blame you. He’s irresistible. Come on, I’ll take you upstairs.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“You’re plowed, Skimmerhorn. Your body knows it, it just hasn’t gotten through to your brain yet.”

“I’m not drunk,” he said again, but didn’t object when she slipped an arm around his waist to lead him up the steps. “I made fifteen bucks and two dozen cookies on the deliveries.”

“That’s nice.”

“Pretty good cookies.” He bumped into her as they passed through the doorway. “Christ, you smell good.”

“I bet you say that to all your landlords. Got your keys?”

“Yeah.” He fumbled for them, gave up and leaned against the wall. Served him right, he thought, for drinking that hard with only a few Snickerdoodles in his system.

Sighing, Dora slid her hand into his front pocket. She encountered a hard thigh and loose change.

“Try the other one,” he suggested.

She looked up, caught the easy and surprisingly charming smile. “Nope. If you enjoyed that, you’re not as drunk as I thought. Fish them out yourself.”

“I told you I wasn’t drunk.” He found them, then wondered how he was supposed to fit the key into the lock when the floor was weaving. Dora guided his hand. “Thanks.”

“It’s the least I can do. Can you get yourself to bed?”

He braced a hand on the doorjamb. “Let’s get this straight, Conroy. I don’t want to sleep with you.”

“Well, that certainly puts me in my place.”

“You got complication all over you, baby. Those big, brown eyes and that tough little body. I just want to be alone.”

“I guess that kills any hope I’ve been harboring that I’ll bear your children. But don’t worry, I’ll get over it.” She steered him toward the couch, shoved him down, then propped up his feet.

“I don’t want you,” he told her as she pried off his boots. “I don’t want anyone.”

“Okay.” She looked around for a blanket, and settled on a couple of towels he’d hung over his bench press. “Here you go, nice and cozy.” She tucked them neatly around him. He looked awfully cute, she thought, all drunk and surly and heavy-eyed. Going with impulse, she leaned over and kissed the end of his nose.

“Go to sleep, Skimmerhorn. You’re going to feel like hell tomorrow.”

“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?”

“What noise?”

“That.” Her eyes narrowed in concentration. “Oh boy. Don’t tell me we
do
have mice.”

He lowered the barbell and listened. “Someone down in the shop.”

“What?”

“In the shop,” he repeated. “The sound carries up through the vent. Don’t you know your own building, Conroy?”

“I’m not over here that much, and not when the shop’s open.” She started to dismiss it, then froze. “But the shop’s not open.” Her voice had lowered to a stage whisper. “There’s no one down there.”