Hidden Riches (3 page)

Carefully, he set the Baccarat low-ball glass aside and studied himself in the oval George III mirror above the bar. He brushed a fussy hand over his thick mane of dark hair, admiring the glint and gleam of silver that threaded through it. His last face-lift had smoothed away the sags under his eyes, firmed his chin and erased the lines that had dug deeply around his mouth.

He looked no more than forty, Finley decided, turning his face from side to side to study and approve his profile.

What fool had said that money couldn't buy happiness?

The knock on his door shattered his mood. “Come,” he snapped out, and waited as one of his receiving clerks
wheeled in a crate. “Leave it there.” He jabbed a finger toward the center of the room. “And go. Abel, remain. The door,” he said, and Winesap scurried to shut it behind the departing clerk.

When Finley said nothing more, Winesap blanched and walked back to the crate. “I opened it as you instructed, Mr. Finley. As I began to inspect the merchandise, I realized there had been an error.” Gingerly he reached into the crate, dipping his hand into a sea of shredded paper. His fingers trembled as he pulled out a china teapot decorated with tiny violets.

Finley took the teapot, turning it over in his hands. It was English, a lovely piece, worth perhaps $200 on the open market. But it was mass-produced. Thousands of teapots exactly like this one were on sale across the world. So to him it was completely worthless. He smashed it against the edge of the crate and sent shards flying.

“What else?”

Quaking, Winesap plunged his hand deep into the crate and drew out a swirling glass vase.

Italian, Finley deduced as he inspected it. Handmade. A value of $100, perhaps $150. He hurled it, barely missing Winesap's head, and sent it crashing against the wall.

“There's—there's teacups.” Winesap's eyes darted to the crate and back to his employer's stony face. “And some silver—two platters, a candy dish. A p-pair of crystal goblets etched with wedding bells.”

“Where is my merchandise?” Finley demanded, biting off each word.

“Sir, I can't—that is, I believe there's been . . .” His voice drained out to a whisper. “An error.”

“An error.” Finley's eyes were like jade as he clenched his fists at his sides. DiCarlo, he thought, conjuring up an image of his man in New York. Young, bright, ambitious. But not stupid, Finley reminded himself. Not stupid enough to attempt a double cross. Still, he would have to pay, and pay dearly for this error.

“Get DiCarlo on the phone.”

“Yes, sir.” Relieved that Finley's wrath was about to find a new target, Winesap darted to the desk to place the call.

As Winesap dialed, Finley crunched shards of china into the carpet. Reaching into the crate, he systematically destroyed the rest of the contents.

J
ed Skimmerhorn wanted a drink. He wasn't particular about the type. Whiskey that would burn a line down his throat, the seductive warmth of brandy, the familiar tang of a beer. But he wasn't going to get one until he'd finished carting boxes up these damn rickety back steps and into his new apartment.

Not that he had a hell of a lot of possessions. His old partner, Brent, had given him a hand with the sofa, the mattress and the heavier pieces of furniture. All that remained were a few cardboard boxes filled with books and cooking utensils and other assorted junk. He wasn't sure why he'd kept even that much when it would have been easier to put it all in storage.

Then again, he wasn't sure of a lot of things these days. He couldn't explain to Brent, or to himself, why he'd found it so necessary to move across town, out of the huge old
Colonial and into an apartment. It was something about fresh starts. But you couldn't start fresh until you'd ended.

Jed had been doing a lot of ending lately.

Turning in his resignation had been the first step—perhaps the hardest. The police commissioner had argued, refusing to accept the resignation and putting Jed on extended leave. It didn't matter what it was called, Jed mused. He wasn't a cop anymore. Couldn't be a cop anymore. Whatever part of him had wanted to serve and protect was hollowed out.

He wasn't depressed, as he'd explained to the department shrink. He was finished. He didn't need to find himself. He just needed to be left alone. He'd given fourteen years of his life to the force. It had to be enough.

Jed elbowed open the door to the apartment and braced it with one of the boxes he carried. He slid the second box across the wooden floor before heading back down the narrow hallway toward the outside steps that served as his entrance.

He hadn't heard a peep from his neighbor across the hall. The eccentric old man who had rented him the place had said that the second apartment was occupied but the tenant was as quiet as a mouse.

It certainly seemed that way.

Jed started down the steps, noting with annoyance that the banister wouldn't hold the weight of a malnourished three-year-old. The steps themselves were slick with the sleet that continued to spit out of the colorless sky. It was almost quiet in the back of the building. Though it fronted on busy South Street, Jed didn't think he'd mind the noise and Bohemian atmosphere, the tourists or the shops. He was close enough to the river that he could take solitary walks when he chose.

In any case, it would be a dramatic change from the manicured lawns of Chestnut Hill, where the Skimmerhorn family home had stood for two centuries.

Through the gloom he could see the glow of colored
lights strung on the windows of neighboring buildings. Someone had wired a large plastic Santa and his eight tiny reindeer to a roof, where they were caught in the pretense of flying day and night.

It reminded him that Brent had invited him to Christmas dinner. A big, noisy family event that Jed might have enjoyed in the past. There had never been big, noisy family events in his life—or none that could have been called fun.

And now there was no family. No family at all.

He pressed his fingertips to the ache at his temple and willed himself not to think of Elaine. But old memories, like the ghost of past sins, snuck through and knotted his stomach.

He hauled the last of the boxes out of the trunk and slammed it with a force that rattled the reconditioned Thunderbird down to its tires. He wasn't going to think of Elaine, or Donny Speck or responsibilities or regrets. He was going to go inside, pour a drink and try to think of nothing at all.

With his eyes narrowed against the stinging sleet, he climbed the steep steps one last time. The temperature inside was dramatically higher than the wind-punched air outside. The landlord was generous with the heat. Overly generous. But then, it wasn't Jed's problem how the old guy spent his money.

Funny old guy, Jed thought now, with his rich voice, operatic gestures and silver flask. He'd been more interested in Jed's opinion on twentieth-century playwrights than in his references and rent check.

Still, you couldn't be a cop for nearly half your life and not understand that the world was made up of a lot of odd characters.

Once inside, Jed dumped the last box onto the oak table in the dining area. He dug through crumpled newspaper in search of that drink. Unlike the crates in storage, these boxes weren't marked, nor had they been packed with any
sort of system. If there had been any practical genes in the Skimmerhorn blood, he figured Elaine had gotten his share as well as her own.

The fresh thought of his sister made him swear again, softly through his teeth. He knew better than to let the thought dig roots, for if it did it would bloom with guilt. Over the past month he'd become all too aware that guilt could give you night sweats and a dull, skittering sense of panic.

Sweaty hands and panic weren't desirable qualities in a cop. Nor was the tendency to uncontrollable rage. But he wasn't a cop anymore, Jed reminded himself. His time and his choices, as he'd told his grandmother, were his own.

The apartment was echoingly empty, which only served to satisfy him that he was alone. One of the reasons he'd chosen it was because he'd have only one neighbor to ignore. The other reason was just as simple, and just as basic: It was fabulous.

He supposed he'd lived with the finer things for too long not to be drawn to them. However much he claimed that his surroundings didn't matter, he would have been quietly miserable in some glossy condo or soulless apartment complex.

He imagined the old building had been converted into shop and apartments sometime in the thirties. It had retained its lofty ceilings and spacious rooms, the working fireplace and slim, tall windows. The floors, a random-width oak, had been highly polished for the new tenant.

The trim was walnut and uncarved, the walls a creamy ivory. The old man had assured Jed they could be painted to suit his tastes, but home decorating was the last thing on Jed's mind. He would take the rooms precisely as they were.

He unearthed a bottle of Jameson, three-quarters full. He studied it a moment, then set it on the table. He was shoving packing paper aside in search of a glass when he heard noises. His hands froze, his body braced.

Tilting his head, he turned, trying to locate the source of the sound. He'd thought he'd heard bells, a tingling echo. And now laughter, a smoky drift of it, seductive and female.

His eyes turned to the brass, open-work floor vent near the fireplace. The sounds floated up through it, some vague, some clear enough that he could hear individual words if he chose to listen.

There was some sort of antique or curio shop beneath the apartment. It had been closed for the last couple of days, but it was apparently open for business now.

Jed went back to his search for a glass and tuned out the sounds from below.

 

“I really do appreciate your meeting us here, John.” Dora set a newly acquired globe lamp beside the antique cash register.

“No problem.” He huffed a bit as he carted another crate into the overflowing storeroom. He was a tall man with a skinny frame that refused to fill out, an honest face that might have been homely but for the pale, shy eyes that peered at the world from behind thick lenses.

He sold Oldsmobiles in Landsdowne and had been named Salesman of the Year two years running using a low-key, almost apologetic approach that came naturally to him and charmed the customers.

Now he smiled at Dora and shoved his dark-framed glasses back up his nose. “How did you manage to buy so much in such a short time?”

“Experience.” She had to rise on her toes to kiss John's cheek, then she bent and scooped up her younger nephew, Michael. “Hey, frog face, did you miss me?”

“Nuh-uh.” But he grinned and wrapped his pudgy arms around her neck.

Lea turned to keep an eagle eye on her two other children. “Richie, hands in your pockets. Missy, no pirouetting in the shop.”

“But, Mom . . .”

“Ah.” Lea sighed, smiled. “I'm home.” She held out her arms for Michael. “Dora, do you need any more help?”

“No, I can handle it from here. Thanks again.”

“If you're sure.” Dubiously, Lea glanced around the shop. It was a mystery to her how her sister could function in the clutter she constantly surrounded herself with. They had grown up in chaos, with every day dawning with a new drama or comedy. For Lea, the only way to remain sane as an adult was structure. “I really could come in tomorrow.”

“No. It's your day off, and I'm counting on scarfing down my share of those cookies you'll be baking.” As she herded her family toward the door, Dora slipped a pound bag of M&M's to her niece. “Share,” she ordered under her breath. “And don't tell your mom where you got them.” She ruffled Richie's hair. “Scram, creep.”

He grinned, showing the wide gap of his missing two front teeth. “Burglars might come tonight and rob you blind.” Reaching out, he toyed with the long dangle of citrine and amethyst that swung at her ear. “If I spent the night, I'd shoot them for you.”

“Why, thank you, Richie,” Dora said in serious tones. “I can't tell you how much I appreciate that. But I'll just have to shoot my own burglars tonight.” She nudged her family outside, then began to lock up immediately, knowing that Lea would wait until she had turned every lock and engaged the security alarm.

Alone, she turned and took a deep breath. There was the scent of apple and pine from the potpourri set all around the shop. It was good to be home, she thought, and lifted the box that contained the new acquisitions she'd decided to take to her apartment upstairs.

She moved through the storeroom to unlock the door that led to the inside stairway. She had to juggle the box, her purse and her overnight bag, as well as the coat she'd stripped off on entering the shop. Muttering to herself, she
managed to hit the light switch in the stairway with her shoulder.

She was halfway down the hall when she saw the light spilling out of the neighboring apartment. The new tenant. Shifting her grip, she walked to the door that was braced open with a box and peered in.

She saw him standing by an old table, a bottle in one hand, a glass in the other. The room itself was sparsely furnished with a sofa and an overstuffed chair.

But she was more interested in the man who stood in profile to her and downed a long swallow of whiskey.

He was tall with a tough, athletic build that made her think of a boxer. He wore a navy sweatshirt with sleeves pushed up to the elbows—no visible tattoos—and Levis worn white at the stress points. His hair was a bit unkempt, falling carelessly over his collar in a rich shade of ripening wheat.

In contrast, the watch at his wrist was either an amazingly good knockoff, or a genuine Rolex.

Though her appraisal took only seconds, Dora sensed her neighbor was not celebrating his new home. His face, shadowed by the high slash of cheekbones and the stubble of a beard, seemed grim.

Before she had made a sound, she saw his body tense. His head whipped around. Dora found herself fighting the instinct to step back in defense as he pinned her with eyes that were hard, expressionless and shockingly blue.

“Your door was open,” she said apologetically, and was immediately annoyed that she'd excused herself from standing in her own hallway.

“Yeah.” He set the bottle down, carrying the glass with him as he crossed to her. Jed took his own survey. Most of her body was obscured by the large cardboard box she carried. A pretty oval face, slightly pointed at the chin, with an old-fashioned roses-and-cream complexion, a wide, unpainted mouth that was just curving up in a smile, big
brown eyes that were filled with friendly curiosity, a swing of sable-colored hair.

“I'm Dora,” she explained when he only continued to stare. “From across the hall? Need any help getting organized?”

“No.” Jed booted the box away with his foot and closed the door in her face.

Her mouth fell open before she deliberately snapped it shut. “Well, welcome to the neighborhood,” she muttered as she turned away to her own door. After an initial fumble for her keys, she unlocked her door and slammed it behind her. “Thanks a lot, Dad,” she said to the empty room. “Looks like you found me a real prize.”

Dora dumped her things on a settee blooming with cabbage roses, brushed her hair back with impatient fingers. The guy might have been a pleasure to look at, she mused, but she preferred a neighbor with a modicum of personality. Marching to her candlestick phone, she decided to call her father and give him an earful.

Before she'd dialed the second number, she spotted the sheet of paper with its big heart-shaped happy face drawn at the bottom. Quentin Conroy always added some little drawing—a barometer of his mood—on his notes and letters. Dora hung up the phone and began to read.

Izzy, my darling daughter.

Dora winced. Her father was the only living soul who called her by that derivative of her name.

The deed is done. Well done, if I say so myself. Your new tenant is a strapping young man who should be able to help you with any menial work. His name, as you see on the copies of the lease awaiting your signature, is Jed Skimmerhorn. A full-bodied name that brings lusty sea captains or hearty pioneers to my mind. I found him fascinatingly taciturn, and sensed a whirlpool bubbling under those still waters. I couldn't
think of anything nicer to give my adored daughter than an intriguing neighbor.

Welcome home, my firstborn babe.

Your devoted father.

Dora didn't want to be amused, but she couldn't help smiling. The move was so obvious. Put her within elbow-rubbing space of an attractive man, and maybe, just maybe, she would fall in love, get married and give her greedy father more grandchildren to spoil.