Hidden Riches (26 page)

“No.” Jed's eyes sharpened when Dora walked back in, carrying the painting.

“Mom, I'm sorry, I'm afraid you'll have to eat lunch alone. I called in to the shop to let them know I'd be delayed getting back. There's a little problem I need to see to. I'll have to leave right away.”

“Oh, but darling . . .”

“We'll do lunch soon.” She bent to kiss Trixie's cheek. “I think I have something Dad might like better for his den. One of you drop by and we'll see.”

“Very well.” With a resigned sigh, Trixie set down her cup and rose. “If you must go, you must. But I'll have Carlotta pack up lunch for you.”

“You don't—”

Trixie patted Dora's cheek. “I insist. It'll just take a moment.”

She hurried off, leaving Dora sighing.

“Very smooth, Conroy.” Jed took the painting from her to examine it himself.

“Speaking of smooth.” She turned back, smiling curiously. “Amorphous shapes?”

“I dated an artist for a while. You pick stuff up.”

“It should be interesting to see what you've picked up from me.”

 

“I don't even like tuna fish.” But Dora bit into the sandwich nonetheless while Jed finished removing the frame from the canvas.

“I like the way she chopped up hardboiled eggs and pickles.” Brent polished off his second sandwich with a sigh of satisfaction.

They'd chosen to work in Dora's apartment rather than the storeroom because there was both room and privacy. No one had mentioned the fact that Brent hadn't insisted on taking the painting or the information he'd gathered to his superior.

It was an unspoken fact that Brent still considered Jed his captain.

“Nothing in the frame.” Still, Jed set it carefully aside. “Nothing to the frame, for that matter. We'll let the lab boys take a look.”

“Can't be the painting itself.” Dora washed down tuna with Diet Pepsi. “The artist is an unknown—I checked the day after I bought it in case I'd happened across some overlooked masterpiece.”

Thoughtfully, Jed turned the painting over. “The canvas is stretched over plywood. Get me something to pry this off with, Conroy.”

“You think there might be something inside?” She spoke from the kitchen, rummaging through drawers. “A cache of drugs—no, better. Diamonds.” She brought out a screwdriver. “Rubies, maybe. They're more valuable these days.”

“Try reality,” Jed suggested, and went to work on the backing.

“It could be,” she insisted, peering over his shoulder. “It has to be something worth killing for, and that's usually money.”

“Quit breathing down my neck.” Jed elbowed her away before prying at the plywood.

“It's my painting,” she reminded him. “I have a bill of sale.”

“Nothing,” Jed muttered as he examined the backing he'd removed. “No secret compartments.”

Dora glared at him. “There might have been.”

“Right.” Ignoring her, he tapped a hand on the back of the exposed canvas.

“That's odd. The back of that canvas has a lot of age to it.” Dora pushed her way in for a closer look. “Although I
suppose Billingsly could have painted over an old canvas to save money.”

“Yeah. And sometimes people paint over paintings to smuggle them through customs.”

“You think there's an old master behind there?” Amused, Dora shook her head. “Now who's dreaming?”

But he was paying no more attention to her than he would to a fly buzzing around the ceiling. “We need to get this paint off, see what's under it.”

“Hold it, Skimmerhorn. I paid for this. I'm not going to have you screw it up over some cop's ‘hinkey feeling.' ”

“How much?” Impatience and disgust warred as he turned to her.

Pleased that he understood, she folded her arms over her chest. “Fifty-two dollars and seventy-five cents.”

Muttering, he pulled out his wallet, counted out bills.

Dora tucked her tongue in her cheek and accepted them. Only her strong feelings for Jed kept her from recounting them. “Overhead,” she said primly. “And a reasonable profit. Make it an even eighty and we'll call it square.”

“For Christ's sake.” He slapped more bills into her palm. “Greedy.”

“Practical,” she corrected, and kissed him to close the deal. “I have some stuff in the storeroom that should work. Give me a minute.” Dora slipped the money into her pocket and went downstairs.

“She made you pay for it.” Filled with admiration, Brent leaned back in his chair. “And made twenty-seven bucks and change on the deal. I thought she was kidding.”

“I doubt Dora ever kids when it comes to money.” Jed stepped back, lighted a cigarette and studied the painting as if he could see through the splashes of red and blue. “She might have a soft heart, but she's got a mind like a corporate raider.”

“Hey!” Dora kicked at the door with her shoe. “Open up. My hands're full.” When Jed opened the door, she came in loaded down with a drop cloth, a bottle and several rags.
“You know, it might be better if we called in some expert. We could have it X-rayed or something.”

“For now, we're keeping this to ourselves.” He dropped the rags on the floor, then took the bottle. “What's in here?”

“A solution I use when some idiot has painted over stenciling.” She knelt on the floor to roll back the rug. “We need a very careful touch. Give me a hand with this.”

Brent was already beside her, grinning at the way Jed scowled when Jed noted where his eyes had focused. He crouched and spread the cloth.

“Trust me, I've done this before,” she explained. “Some philistine painted over this gorgeous old credenza so it would match the dining room color scheme. It took forever to get it back in shape, but it was worth it.” She sat back on her heels, blew the hair out of her eyes. “Want me to give it a try?”

“I paid for it,” Jed reminded her. “It's mine now.”

“Just offering to help.” She handed him a rag. “I'd start on a corner if I were you. In case you mess up.”

“I'm not going to mess up.” But after he knelt beside her, he did indeed start on a corner. He dampened the rag and, working in slow, delicate circles, removed the end of the signature.

“Bye-bye, Billingsly,” Dora murmured.

“Put a lid on it, Conroy.” He dampened the rag again then gently removed the stark white paint, the primer. “Something's under here.”

“You're kidding.” Excitement bubbled into her voice as she leaned closer. “What is it? I can't see.” She tried to crane her neck over his shoulder and got an elbow in the ribs for her trouble. “Damn, Skimmerhorn, I just want a look.”

“Back off.” His muscles tensed as he delicately removed more of the primer. “Pay dirt,” he murmured. “Son of a bitch.”

“What?” Refusing to be put off, Dora nudged him until
she could crouch close to the corner. “Monet.” She whispered the name, as though in church. “Claude Monet. Oh my God, I bought a Monet for fifty-two dollars and seventy-five cents.”

“I bought a Monet,” Jed reminded her. “For eighty.”

“Children.” Brent laid a hand on each of their backs. “I'm not much of an art buff, but even I know who this guy is, and I don't think anybody would have painted that abstract crap over the real thing.”

“Unless it was being smuggled,” Jed finished.

“Exactly. I'll run a check, see if there've been any art thefts in the last few months that included our friend here.”

“It might have been in a private collection.” Dora let her fingers hover over Monet's signature, but didn't touch. “Don't take off any more, Jed. You could damage it.”

She was right. Jed stemmed his impatience and set the rag aside. “I know somebody who does some restoration work. She could probably handle this, and she'd keep quiet about it.”

“The old girlfriend?” Dora asked.

“She isn't old.” In an unconscious move he skimmed a hand over Dora's hair, resting his fingers on the nape of her neck as he looked over at Brent.

“You're going to have to take this to Goldman.”

“That's the next step.”

Jed looked down at the artist's signature against a deep misty green. “I shouldn't ask you, but I'm going to.”

“How much time do you want?” Brent asked, anticipating him.

“Time enough to check out this auction house in Virginia and find the trail.” He kept his voice even.

Brent nodded and picked up his coat. “I've got enough on my plate checking out DiCarlo. NYPD reports that he hasn't been seen at his apartment for a few days. Between that and trying to keep Philadelphia safe for women and children, I could let certain details slip my mind. You'd be doing me a favor if you could pull together what a china
statue of a dog and a painting have in common. Keep in touch.”

“I will.”

“And watch your back. See you, Dora.”

“Bye, Brent.” She stayed where she was a moment. “How high a limb did he just go out on for you?”

“High enough.”

“Then we'd better be sure we can pull a net under him.”

“We?” He grabbed her hand as she got to her feet. “I don't remember anything about we.”

“Then your memory's faulty. Why don't you call your friend the artist, then book us a flight for Virginia? I'll be packed in ten minutes.”

“There's not a woman alive who can pack for a trip in ten minutes.”

“Skimmerhorn.” She spoke over her shoulder as she headed for the bedroom. “I was born on the road. Nobody packs faster than an actor ducking an opening-night bomb.”

“I don't want you with me. It could be dangerous.”

“Fine, I'll book my own flight.”

“Goddamn, you're a pain in the ass.”

“So I've been told. Oh, and make sure it's first-class, will you? I never travel coach.”

 

Winesap knocked lightly on Finley's office door. He knew his employer had just completed a forty-five-minute conference call, and wasn't sure of his mood. Gingerly, he poked his head inside. Finley was standing at the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Sir?”

“Abel. It's a fine day, isn't it? A fine day.”

The trepidation curdling Winesap's stomach smoothed out like lake water. “Yes, sir, it is.”

“I'm a fortunate man, Abel. Of course, I've made my own fortune, which makes it all the sweeter. How many of those people down there enjoy their work, do you suppose?
How many go home at the end of the business day fulfilled? Yes, Abel, I am a fortunate man.” He turned back, his face wreathed in smiles. “And what can I do for you?”

“I have a dossier on Isadora Conroy.”

“Excellent work. Excellent.” He beckoned Winesap forward. “You are of great value to me, Abel.” As he reached for the file, Finley squeezed Winesap's bony shoulder with his free hand. “Of great value. I would like to demonstrate my appreciation.” Opening his top desk drawer, Finley took out a velvet box.

“Thank you, sir.” Humbled and touched, Winesap opened the box. “Oh, Mr. Finley,” he said in a choked voice. Choked because he didn't have a clue what he was looking at.

It seemed to be a spoon of some sort with a large bowl and a short handle shaped like an eagle.

“I'm delighted you're pleased. I chose it from my own collection of caddy spoons. The pewter, I thought, suited you best. A strong, durable material often underrated.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you. I don't know what to say.”

“It's nothing.” Finley brushed away the gratitude. “A token only of my appreciation.” He sat now, tapping his finger to his top lip. “You serve me well, Abel. I reward loyalty just as I punish betrayal. Quickly, precisely and thoroughly. Hold my calls for the next hour.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you again.”

But Finley had already quickly, precisely and thoroughly blocked Winesap from his reality. He opened the file and concentrated on Isadora Conroy.

I
t was raining in thin chilly sheets when Jed drove into Front Royal. The weather had been miserable throughout the plane ride from Philadelphia International to Dulles, and promised to remain so. The defroster on the rental car worked at two speeds: blast and trickle. Each time Jed was forced to crank it up, the interior turned into a small, efficient sauna.

Dora chatted away on the drive, her easy voice and casual observations relaxing him. He wasn't required to respond, or even to listen. She had a way of making him absorb her mood even while his mind was working out the details of the next steps to be taken.

“If you ever went into the subliminal tape business,” Jed commented, “you could make a fortune.”

“Do you think so?” Dora flipped down the visor and used the attached mirror to freshen her lipstick. “Make the
next two rights,” she told him, and recapped her lipstick. “There's a parking lot in back of the building.”

“Since there's a sign and an arrow, I probably could have figured that out.”

“You're still ticked off because I pack faster than you do.”

“I was not ticked off.”

“Of course you were.” With a bright smile on her face, Dora patted his arm. “It's a man thing. The way you insisted on doing the driving even though I knew the way was a man thing. I don't mind. I think it's cute.”

“I did the driving because I didn't trust you not to end up in a five-car pileup because you were so busy talking about the ozone layer or ZZ Top.”

“Ah.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You were listening.”

“My ears are still ringing.” Jed pulled up into a slot beside a battered Ford pickup. “Remember, Conroy, you're not here on a buying jaunt.”

“I know, I know.” She rolled her eyes as he climbed out of the car. “And you'll ask the questions,” she continued. “I'll stand two paces behind like a good little girl and keep my mouth shut.”

He waited until she'd shut her door. “That's right.” He studied her while the rain dampened her hair. “It's a nice mouth—even if it runs most of the time.”

“Well, that set my heart fluttering.” She hooked her arm through his and started for the rear door. “It won't be warm inside,” she told him as he pulled open the metal door with a screech of hinges. “But it'll be dry. Mr. Porter has a rep for extreme frugality. No frills, no shiny displays, but some pretty good bargains.” She took a deep gulp of the air and her eyes kindled. “God, just look at this stuff.”

He was. But what he saw was row after row of dusty furniture and smeared glass crowded with junk. There were tangles of jewelry, most of it outrageously tacky and all of it dull from disuse. An entire cabinet was stuffed with salt and
pepper shakers, another with a variety of bottles that were none too clean. There was a Shriner's cap set jauntily atop a cracked gumball machine and several cardboard boxes filled with paperback books at ten cents apiece.

“I think that's a Maxfield Parrish print.”

Before Dora could make a beeline, Jed snagged her arm. From the gleam in her eyes, he knew that getting her through would be similar to walking over hot coals. It would have to be done fast, and without any looking back.

“Where are the offices?”

“In the front, to the right. Jed, I only want to see—”

But he was already hauling her along while she tugged on his arm like a puppy straining at the leash. “Toughen up, Conroy. Your palms are sweating.”

“This is really cruel,” she muttered. But she lifted her chin. “Are you sure you don't want me to talk to Porter? Dealer to dealer?”

“I said I'd do the talking.”

“Testosterone surge,” Dora said under her breath.

The office was open but empty when they reached it. It looked to Jed to be the only space in the building that had seen a dust rag or scrub brush within the last decade. In contrast to the helter-skelter arrangement of the market, the desk was shining and neat, the file cabinets clean and tidily shut. The air carried the vague scent of some lemony spray wax.

“There's been some reorganizing since the last time I was here.” Curious, Dora poked her head inside. The desk blotter was spotless, and on the left corner stood a good porcelain vase with fresh hothouse roses. “Last time there was a girlie calendar on the wall—from nineteen fifty-six—and the rest of it looked as though there had been a small bomb detonation. I remember thinking I didn't see how anyone could work in that kind of chaos.” She caught Jed's bland stare and shrugged. “My kind of chaos is organized.” She paused to look around and tried not to yearn too much toward the bargain table. “Maybe Porter's roaming through
somewhere. He's easy enough to spot. He sort of looks like a ferret.”

“May I help you?”

Jed put a hand on Dora's shoulder to keep her quiet and turned to the tidily dressed woman with glasses hanging from a gold chain. “We'd like to speak to Mr. Porter.”

Helen Owings's eyes clouded and filled alarmingly fast with hot tears. “Oh,” she said, and dug in her pocket for a tissue. And again, “Oh,” as she mopped her streaming eyes.

“I'm sorry.” Before Jed could react, Dora had her by the arm and was leading her into the office, into a chair. “Can I get you some water?”

“No, no.” Helen sniffled, then began to tear the damp tissue into tiny pieces. “It was just such a shock, your asking for him. You couldn't have known, I suppose.”

“Have known what?” Jed shut the door quietly and waited.

“Sherman—Mr. Porter's dead. Murdered.” Though the word came out fruity with drama, Helen's lips trembled.

“Oh God.” Dora groped for a chair herself while her brain did a slow, sickening spin.

“Right before Christmas.” Helen blew her nose on what was left of her tissue. “I found him myself. There.” She lifted a hand, pointed at the desk.

“How was he killed?” Jed demanded.

“Shot.” Helen covered her face with her hands, then dropped them into her lap to twist them together. “Shot through the head. Poor, poor Sherman.”

“Do the police have any suspects?” Jed asked.

“No.” Helen sighed and began to draw on what was left of her rattled composure. “There doesn't seem to have been a motive. Nothing was taken that we can determine. There were no—signs of struggle. I'm sorry, Mr . . . . ?”

“Skimmerhorn.”

“Mr. Skimmerhorn. Did you know Sherman?”

“No.” He debated for a moment how much to tell her. As usual, he decided less was best. “Miss Conroy is a
dealer in Philadelphia. We're here about some items that were auctioned on December twenty-first.”

“Our last auction.” Her voice broke. After taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders in an obvious effort to compose herself. “You'll excuse me for being so upset, I hope. We've just reopened today, and I'm still a little shaky. Was there a problem?”

“A question.” Jed smiled with charm and sympathy. “Miss Conroy bought two pieces. We're interested in where and how you acquired them.”

“May I ask why? We usually don't reveal our sources. After all, another dealer could come in and outbid us.”

“We're interested in more background on the items,” he said reassuringly. “We're not going to try to cut off your supply.”

“Well . . .” It wasn't entirely regular, but Helen couldn't find any harm in it. “I may be able to help you. Do you remember the lot number?”

“F fifteen and F eighteen,” Dora said dully. She'd remembered something else, something that made her stomach roll. But when Jed murmured her name, she shook her head.

“F fifteen and eighteen,” Helen repeated, grateful for something practical to do. She rose and went to the file cabinets. “Oh yes, the F lots were from the New York shipment. A small estate sale.” She smiled, taking the folder to the desk. “To be frank, Mr. Skimmerhorn, I believe most of the items were picked up at yard sales. I remember that the quality was not what I'd expected. Conroy . . . yes, you purchased both pieces. I'm afraid I can't tell you very much about them. I—”

The knock on the door interrupted her. “Miz Owings?”

“Yes, Richie?”

“We got a question out here about that Early American dry sink. People are in a hurry.”

“All right, tell them I'll be right there.” Helen rose, smoothed down her hair, her skirt. “Will you excuse me just a minute?”

Jed waited until she'd walked out before picking up the file himself. He scanned the lists, the inventories, the prices, then simply pocketed what he felt was relevant.

“What are you doing?” Dora demanded. “You can't do that.”

“It'll save time. Come on.”

“She knows my name.”

“So, we'll make copies then send the originals back.” He took a firm grip on her hand, but this time it wasn't necessary. She didn't try to linger or dig in her heels to study any of the dusty treasures. Once they were outside and in the car, Jed took her chin in his hand. “Okay, spill it. You went white as a sheet in there.”

“I remembered Mr. Ashworth. I told you about him. He was the dealer I met at the auction that day. He bought a piece from that shipment.”

“The guy who was killed during a burglary,” Jed murmured. “You said his shop was around here.”

“Yes, just a couple miles away.”

“Then that's where we're going next.” He switched on the engine. “Can you handle it?”

“Yes. But I want to stop and call the shop first.”

“You've only been away a couple hours, Conroy. It should run well enough without you.”

“I don't want Terri or Lea anywhere near the place.” She set her jaw and stared straight ahead. “I want it closed.”

“Okay.” He closed his hand over hers and found it cold and rigid. “Okay.”

 

Although he'd taken the precaution of packing an overnight bag, Jed had hoped to make the trip to Virginia and back in one day. There was no question of doing so after visiting Ashworth's shop.

Dora needed some downtime, and he was going to see that she got it.

She said nothing when he checked into a hotel near the airport. The fact that she'd said little throughout the
rainy ride from Front Royal concerned him nearly as much as the information they'd gleaned from Tom Ashworth's grandson. In addition to Ashworth's death and the damage done during the break-in, the figurine had apparently been taken.

Jed unlocked the door of the hotel room, set the overnight bags aside, then pointed Dora toward a chair. “Sit down. You need to eat.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Yes, you are.” He picked up the phone and ordered two steaks, coffee and a bottle of brandy without consulting her. “Thirty minutes,” he said when he hung up. “Which probably means forty. You've got time to stretch out.”

“I . . .” Numb, she looked toward the bed. “I think I'll have a bath.”

“Fine. Take your time.”

She rose, picked up her bag. She didn't look at him. “Don't you feel anything?” she asked in a voice that cracked with fatigue. “Three people are dead—at least three. There might be more. People I care about might be in danger simply because they work for me. And you order dinner. Doesn't it make you scared? Doesn't it make you sick? Doesn't it make you anything?”

The last question lashed out like a whip as she clutched the bag to her chest and forced herself to look at his face. Jed met her eyes levelly. “Yeah, it makes me something. It makes me pissed off. Go take your bath, Dora. Tune it out for a while.”

Wearily, she turned away. “It doesn't work like that.” She closed the door quietly behind her. In a moment, he heard the water running in the tub.

He lighted a cigarette, swearing under his breath as he fought with the matches. She was disappointed in him—that's what had been in her eyes when she'd finally looked at him. And it mattered, maybe too much, what she thought of him, what she felt for him, how she looked at him.

She mattered too much.

He crossed to the bathroom door, lifted his hand to knock. Then dropped it again. There was nothing to be said, he thought. Actions were necessary. He went back to the phone and called Brent.

“Lieutenant Chapman.”

“It's Jed.”

“What have you got?”

“A couple of dead guys.” Jed blew out smoke and automatically kept his voice low. “Sherman Porter, owned the auction house where Dora picked up the painting and the dog. Shot in his office right before Christmas. You might want to call the locals here for details.”

“I've got it.”

“Ashworth, Thomas, local antique dealer, killed during a burglary about the same time Porter bought it. He'd been at the auction with Dora, bought a porcelain figurine.” Jed consulted his list. “A man and a woman, about two feet high, in period dress. Antebellum. He didn't keep it long.”

“Value?”

“Negligible. I've got a rundown here of what else was in the shipment, and who bought what.”

“You've been busy, Captain. Read it off, but take it slow. My shorthand's rusty.”

When he'd finished the list, Jed crushed out his cigarette. “I'd appreciate it if you'd put a rush on running these people down.”

“You don't have to ask.”

“The shipment came down from New York, supposed to be from some estate sale, but the woman in charge seemed to think the stuff was yard-sale junk—not exactly what she'd been expecting. I've got the name of the guy who sent it down. I'm going to check him out tomorrow, in person.”

“Let me have the name. We'll run a make on him just in case.”

“Franklin Flowers, Brooklyn address. Any more on Mrs. Lyle?”

“Her condition seems to be stabilizing. She doesn't remember any more than what she told us.”