Hidden Riches (7 page)

“A female what?” Dora muttered, then paused as she poured beans into her old, hand-cranked coffee grinder. “No.” While she ground beans, she glanced over her shoulder where Andrew was standing behind her, lips pursed in disapproval. “Do you?”

“Certainly. I mean the two of you do live here, alone.”

“No, I live here, alone. He lives there.” Because it annoyed her to have him breathing down her neck while she worked, Dora said, “Why don't you go put on some music, Andrew?”

“Music?” His blandly handsome face cleared. “Of course. Mood.”

Moments later she heard the quiet strains of an old Johnny Mathis recording. She thought, Uh-oh, then shrugged. If she couldn't handle an accountant who wore Brooks Brothers suits and Halston cologne, she deserved to pay the price. “The coffee'll be a few minutes,” she said as she walked back into the living room. Andrew was standing, hands on his narrow hips, studying her new painting. “That's something, isn't it?”

He tilted his head right, then left. “It's certainly bold.” Then he turned to her to take a moment to admire how she looked in the short black dress covered with fiery bugle beads. “And it suits you.”

“I picked it up at an auction in Virginia just a couple of days ago.” She sat on the arm of a chair, automatically crossing her legs without giving a thought to the way the movement urged her skirt higher on her thighs.

Andrew gave it considerable thought.

“I thought I'd enjoy living with it awhile before I put it in the shop.” She smiled, then catching the predatory look in his eye, popped off the chair like a spring. “I'll go check the coffee.”

But he caught her hand and swung her, in what she
imagined he considered a stylish move, into his arms. She barely avoided colliding her head with his chin. “We should take advantage of the music,” he told her as he glided over the rug. His mother had paid good money for dance lessons and he didn't want to waste it.

Dora forced herself to relax. He did dance well, she mused as she matched her steps to his. She smiled and let her eyes close. She let the music and the movement take her, laughing softly when he lowered her into a stylish dip.

He wasn't such a bad guy, she mused. He looked good, he moved well. He took care of his mother and had a solid portfolio. Just because he'd bored her silly on a couple of dates didn't mean . . .

Suddenly he clamped her hard against him, shattering her mellow mood. That she could understand and certainly overlook. But, as she pressed a hand against his chest, she felt the unmistakable outline of a toothbrush he'd slipped into the inside pocket of his jacket.

As conscientious as she knew Andrew to be, she sincerely doubted he carried it with him to brush after every meal.

Before she could comment, his hands had streaked under the hem of her dress to grab her silk-covered bottom.

“Hey!” Furious, she reared back, but even as she managed to free her mouth, he was slobbering kisses over her neck and shoulder.

“Oh, Dora, Dora, I want you.”

“I get the picture, Andrew.” While she squirmed, one of his hands snuck up to tug her zipper. “But you're not going to have me. Now pull yourself together.”

“You're so beautiful, so irresistible.”

He had her pressed against the side of a chair. Dora felt her balance going and swore. “Well, resist, or I'll have to hurt you.”

He only continued to mumble seductive phrases as he tumbled with her to the floor. It wasn't the indignity of
being sprawled under a crazed accountant that bothered her so much. It was the fact that they'd rammed against the coffee table and sent several of her treasures crashing to the floor.

Enough was enough. Dora brought her knee up between Andrew's thighs. Even as he grunted, she popped him hard in the eye.

“Off!” she shouted, shoving at him. Groaning, he rolled, curling up like a boiled shrimp. Dora scrambled to her feet. “If you don't get up right now, I'll hit you again. I mean it.”

Afraid, he heaved himself to his hands and knees. “You're crazy,” he managed, and took out a snowy-white handkerchief to check his face for blood.

“You're right. Absolutely.” She picked up his coat and held it out. “You're better off without me. Now run along home, Andrew. And put some ice on that eye.”

“My eye.” He probed at it, winced. “What am I supposed to tell Mother?”

“That you walked into a door.” Impatience snapping around her, Dora helped him to his feet. “Go away, Andrew.”

Struggling for dignity, he snatched his coat away from her. “I took you out to dinner. Twice.”

“Consider it a bad investment. I'm sure you can find a way to deduct it.” She yanked open her door just as Jed opened his across the hall. “Out! And if you ever try anything like that again, I'll blacken both your eyes.”

“Crazy.” Andrew scurried toward the door. “You're out of your mind.”

“Come back and I'll show you crazy.” She pulled off a spiked heel and hurled it like a discus. “And you're fired.” The shoe hit the back of the door with a satisfying thump. Dora stood, one shoe off, one shoe on, catching her breath. The quiet sound of Jed clearing his throat had her spinning back. He was grinning. It was the first time she'd seen him grin, but she wasn't in the mood to be pleased with the way
it made his usually surly face approachable.

“See something funny, Skimmerhorn?”

He thought about it. “Yeah.” Because it had been a long time since he'd been quite so amused, he leaned against the doorjamb and continued to grin. “Interesting date, Conroy?”

“Fascinating.” She hobbled down the hall to retrieve her shoe. Slapping it against her palm, she hobbled back. “You still here?”

“Looks like.”

Dora let out a long breath, dragged a hand through her tumbled hair. “Want a drink?”

“Sure.”

As she crossed the threshold into her apartment, she pulled off the other shoe and tossed them both aside. “Brandy?”

“Fine.” He glanced at the broken china on the floor. That must have been the crash he'd heard. Between that and the shouting, he'd had a bad moment deciding whether or not to intervene. Even when he'd carried a badge, he'd worried more about answering a domestic dispute than collaring a pro.

He looked over at Dora while she poured brandy into snifters. Her face was still flushed, her eyes still narrowed. He had to be grateful his Seventh Cavalry routine hadn't been necessary.

“So, who was the jerk?”

“My former accountant.” Dora handed Jed a snifter. “He spends the evening boring me into a coma talking about Schedule Cs and long-term capital gains, then figures he can come back here and rip my clothes off.”

Jed skimmed his gaze down her glittery black dress. “Nice clothes,” he decided. “Don't know why he'd waste his time with capital gains.”

Dora drank again, tilted her head. “Give me a minute. I think there was supposed to be a compliment buried in there.”

Jed shrugged. “Looks like he got the worst of it.”

“I should have broken his nose.” Pouting, she walked over and crouched to pick up broken bric-a-brac. “Look at this!” Temper began to simmer again. She held up a broken cup. “This was Derby. Eighteen-fifteen. And this ashtray was Manhattan.”

Jed crouched beside her. “Expensive?”

“That's not the point. This used to be a Hazel Ware candy dish—Moroccan amethyst, with lid.”

“It's trash now. Leave it be; you're going to cut yourself. Get a broom or something.”

Muttering, she rose and went out to rummage in the kitchen. “He even had a toothbrush in his pocket.” She came out, waving a whisk broom and dustpan like a shield and spear. “A damn toothbrush. I bet the son of a bitch was an Eagle Scout.”

“Probably had a change of underwear in his overcoat pocket.” Gently, Jed took the broom from her.

“I wouldn't be surprised.” Dora stalked back to the kitchen for the trash can. She winced as Jed dumped a load of broken glass into the trash can. “And a couple of condoms.”

“Any self-respecting Eagle Scout would have those in his wallet.”

Resigned, she sat on the arm of the chair again. The theatrics, it seemed, were over. “Were you?”

“Was I what?”

“An Eagle Scout.”

He dumped the last load of glass, then sent her a long look. “No. I was a delinquent. Better watch your feet over here. I might have missed some splinters.”

“Thanks.” Too wired to sit, Dora rose to replenish both snifters. “So what do you do now?”

“You ought to know.” Jed took out a pack of cigarettes, lighted one. “I filled out an application.”

“I didn't have a chance to read it. Can I have one of those?” She nodded to his cigarette. “I like to smoke in
times of stress or great annoyance.”

He passed her the one he'd already lighted and took out another. “Feeling better?”

“I guess.” She took a quick drag, blew it out as quickly. She didn't like the taste, only the effect. “You didn't answer my question.”

“What question?”

“What do you do?”

“Nothing.” He smiled, but there was nothing humorous about it. “I'm independently wealthy.”

“Oh. I guess it pays to be a delinquent.” She took another pull on the cigarette. The smoke and the brandy were making her pleasantly dizzy. “So what do you do with yourself all day?”

“Nothing much.”

“I could keep you busy.”

His brow lifted. “Is that so?”

“Honest labor, Skimmerhorn. That is, if you're any good with your hands.”

“I've been told I'm good enough.” His fingers hovered at her back, over the zipper that had been pulled nearly to her waist. After a moment's hesitation, he zipped it neatly into place. Dora jolted, blinked.

“Ah . . . thanks. What I meant was, I need some new shelves in the storeroom. And this place always needs a little this or that.”

“Your outside banister's a joke.”

“Oh.” Her lips moved into a pout, as though the insult had been personal. To Dora, it very nearly was. “Can you fix it?”

“Probably.”

“We could work it off the rent, or I could pay you by the hour.”

“I'll think about it.” He was thinking about something else at the moment—about how badly he wanted to touch her. Just a brush of his thumb along the curve of her throat. He couldn't say why, but he wanted to do that, only that,
and to see if the pulse at the base of that long, slender throat would throb in response.

Annoyed with himself, Jed set aside his empty snifter and moved past her to pick up the trash can. “I'll take this back for you.”

“Thanks.” She had to swallow. It wasn't as simple as it might have been, not with the obstruction in her throat. There was something about the way the man looked at her that sent all sorts of weird jangles through her system.

Stupid, she told herself. It had simply been a long and exhausting day. She started toward the kitchen.

“Really, thanks,” she said again. “If you hadn't come in, I'd have spent an hour kicking things.”

“That's all right. I liked watching you kick him.”

She smiled. “Why?”

“I didn't like his suit.” He stopped in the doorway to look down at her. “Pinstripes put me off.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” With the smile still curving her lips, she glanced up. Jed followed her gaze and studied the sprig of mistletoe over his head.

“Cute,” he said, and because he was a man who'd decided to stop taking chances, started to move by her.

“Hey.” Amused by the situation, and his reaction, Dora caught his arm. “Bad luck,” she told him. Hiking up to her toes, she brushed her mouth lightly over his. “I don't like to risk bad luck.”

He reacted instinctively, in much the same way he would have to a gunshot or a knife at the back. Thought came after action. He caught her chin in his hand to hold her still. “You're risking more than bad luck, Isadora.”

And he brought his mouth down on hers in a kiss tasting of smoke and brandy and an underlying violence that had the blood draining out of her head.

Oh God, my God, was all she had a chance to think. Or perhaps she groaned it as her lips parted helplessly under his.

It was quick, seconds only, but when he released her,
she rocked back down on her heels, eyes wide.

He stared down at her for another moment, cursing himself and fighting a vicious urge to do exactly what the idiot accountant had tried.

“I wouldn't try kicking me on the way out,” he said softly. “Lock your door, Conroy.”

He walked out, across the hall, and locked his own.

“W
hat are you so cranky about?” Lea demanded. She'd popped back into the storeroom to announce a $500 sale, and had been greeted, for the third time that morning, by a short snarl.

“I'm not cranky,” Dora snapped. “I'm busy.” She was currently boxing up a four-piece place setting of Fire-King Dinnerware, honeysuckle pattern. “People ought to be shot for trying to cram their shopping into the last two days before Christmas. Do you realize I have to take Terri off the floor and have her deliver this across town this afternoon?”

“You could have told the customer to come back in for it.”

“And I might have lost the sale,” Dora tossed back. “I've had these damn dishes for three years. I'm lucky to have palmed them off on anyone.”

“Now I know something's wrong.” Lea crossed her arms. “Spill it.”

“Nothing's wrong.” Except that she hadn't been able to sleep. And there was no way, absolutely no way she was going to admit that she'd let one quick kiss tie her up into knots. “I've just got too much to do and not enough time to do it.”

“But you like that, Dora,” Lea pointed out.

“I've changed.” Dora wrapped the last cup in newspaper. “Where's that stupid packing tape?” She turned, then stumbled back against the desk when she spotted Jed at the base of the stairs.

“Sorry.” But he didn't look it. “I came down to see if you still wanted me to fix that banister.”

“Banister? Oh . . . oh, well.” She hated being flustered. The only thing she hated more was being wrong. “You have to get wood or something?”

“Or something.” He looked over when Lea firmly cleared her throat.

“Oh, Lea, this is Jed Skimmerhorn, the new tenant. Jed, my sister, Lea.”

“Nice to meet you.” Lea extended a hand. “I hope you're settling in all right.”

“Not much to settle. Do you want the banister fixed or not?”

“Yes, I suppose. If you're not too busy.” Dora found the packing tape and kept herself occupied by sealing the carton. When the idea dawned, she went with it. “Actually, you could help me out. You've got a car, right? The Thunderbird?”

“So?”

“I have a delivery—in fact, I have three of them. I really can't spare my assistant.”

Jed hooked his thumbs in his front pockets. “You want me to make deliveries?”

“If it wouldn't be a problem. You'd keep track of your gas and mileage.” She offered him a sunny smile. “You
might even cop a couple of tips.”

He could have told her to go to hell. He wasn't sure why he didn't. “How can I resist?” He eyed, with vague dislike, the box she was sealing. “Where to?”

“It's all written down. Those are the other two right there.” She nodded toward the corner of the room. “You can carry them out through the side door to your car.”

Saying nothing, Jed hefted the first box and disappeared outside.

“
That's
the new tenant?” Lea whispered. Possibilities were already racing through her mind as she hurried to the door to peek through. “Who is he? What does he do?”

“I just told you who he is. His name's Skimmerhorn.”

“You know what I mean.” She watched Jed muscle the box into the backseat of the T-Bird, then quickly stepped back across the room. “He's coming back.”

“I hope so,” Dora said dryly. “He's only got one of the boxes.” She lifted the second one herself and passed it to Jed when he came to the door. “They're fragile,” she told him, and got a grunt in response.

“Did you see his shoulders?” Lea hissed. “John doesn't have shoulders like that in my wildest fantasies.”

“Ophelia Conroy Bradshaw, shame on you. John's a wonderful guy.”

“I know that. I'm nuts about him, but he doesn't have any shoulders. I mean, he's got them, of course, but they're just kind of bone and . . . God!” After studying the way Jed's Levis stretched when he leaned over the trunk of his car, she patted her heart and grinned. “It's always reassuring to know the attraction cells still operate. So what's he do?”

“About what?”

“About . . . the invoices,” she said quickly. “Don't forget to give Mr. Skimmerhorn the invoices, Dora.” She picked them up herself and handed them over to Jed as he stepped in to pick up the last box.

“Thanks.” He gave Lea an odd look, wary of the gleam in her eye. “You want me to pick up that lumber, or what?”

“Lumber? Oh, the banister,” Dora remembered. “Sure, go ahead. You can slip the bill under my door if I'm not around.”

He couldn't resist. He knew he should, but he couldn't. “Another hot date?”

She smiled sweetly and yanked open the door. “Kiss my ass, Skimmerhorn.”

“I've thought of it,” he murmured. “I have thought of it.” With that, he sauntered out.

“Tell,” Lea demanded. “Tell all. Don't leave out any detail, however small or insignificant.”

“There's nothing to tell. I went out with Andrew last night, and Jed met him when I was kicking him out.”

“You kicked Jed out?”

“Andrew—he made a pass,” Dora said with the last of her patience. “And I kicked him out. Now, if we've finished our little gossip session—”

“Almost. What does he do? Jed, I mean. He must lift weights or something to have shoulders like that.”

“I never knew you had such a shoulder fixation.”

“I do when they're attached to a body like that one. Let's see, he's a longshoreman.”

“Nope.”

“A construction worker.”

“You lose the trip for two to Maui. Would you like to try for the Samsonite luggage?”

“Just tell me.”

Dora had spent part of her sleepless night digging up Jed's application. One of his references had been Commissioner James L. Riker of the Philadelphia Police Department. Which made sense, she mused, since Jed's last place of employment had been the Philadelphia PD.

“He's an ex-cop.”

“Ex?” Lea's eyes went wide. “Christ, he was fired from the force for taking bribes? Dealing drugs? For killing someone?”

“Put your imagination on hold, sweetie.” Dora patted her
sister's shoulder. “I swear, you should have been the one to take after Mom and Dad on the stage. He resigned,” she said. “A few months back. According to the copious notes Dad took when he called the commissioner of police, Jed's got a pot full of commendations, and they're keeping his service revolver warm for him in hopes that he'll come back.”

“Well, then why did he quit?”

“That didn't seem to be anyone's business,” she said primly, but she was just as curious, and just as annoyed as Lea that their father hadn't asked. “Game over.” She held up her hand to ward off another spate of questions. “If we don't get back inside to help Terri, she'll make my life a living hell.”

“All right, but I feel good knowing you've got a cop right across the hall. That should keep you out of trouble.” She stopped dead, goggle-eyed. “Oh God, Dory, do you think he was carrying a gun?”

“I don't think he'll need one to deliver dinnerware.” With this, Dora shoved her sister through the door.

 

Under any other circumstances, DiCarlo would have felt foolish sitting in an elegant reception area holding a cheap statue in his lap. In this particular reception area, decorated with muted Impressionist prints and Erté sculptures, he didn't feel foolish at all. He felt scared, bone scared.

He hadn't really minded the murder. Not that he enjoyed killing like his cousin Guido, but he hadn't minded it. DiCarlo looked at putting a small-caliber bullet between Porter's eyes as self-defense.

But he'd had a lot to worry about on the long flight from east to west coast. Considering his string of bad luck, he wondered whether by some twisted hook of fate he had the wrong statue warming in his lap. It certainly looked like the one he'd seen packed into the crate at Premium. In a just world, there couldn't be two such ugly porcelain creations in the same small town.

“Mr. DiCarlo?” The receptionist said. “Mr. Finley will see you now.”

“Ah, right. Sure.” DiCarlo rose, hooking the statue under his arm and straightening the knot of his tie with his free hand. He followed the blonde to the double mahogany doors and worked on fixing a pleasant smile on his face.

Finley didn't rise from behind his desk. He enjoyed watching DiCarlo nervously cross the ocean of white carpet. He smiled, coldly, noting the faint beading of sweat over DiCarlo's upper lip.

“Mr. DiCarlo, you have tidied up in the great state of Virginia?”

“Everything there is taken care of.”

“Excellent.” He gestured to his desk so that DiCarlo set the statue down. “And this is all you've brought me?”

“I also have a list of the other merchandise. And all the locations.” At the wave of Finley's fingers, DiCarlo dived into his pocket for the list. “As you see, there were only four other buyers, and two of them are also dealers. I think it should be simple enough to go right into those shops and buy back that merchandise.”

“You think?” Finley said softly. “If you could think, Mr. DiCarlo, my merchandise would already be in my possession. However,” he continued when DiCarlo remained silent, “I'm willing to give you the opportunity to redeem yourself.”

He rose then and ran a fingertip over the overly sweet female face of the statue. “An unfortunate piece of work. Quite hideous, don't you agree?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And this man, this Ashworth, paid in good coin for it. Amazing, isn't it, what people will find appealing. One has only to look to see the lines are awkward, the color poor, the material inferior. Ah well. ‘Beauty's but skin deep.' ” He picked up an unused marble white ashtray from his desk and decapitated the woman.

DiCarlo, who had only hours before cold-bloodedly
murdered two men, jolted when the ashtray smashed the second head away. He watched, his nerves jumping, as Finley systematically broke away limbs.

“An ugly cocoon,” Finley murmured, “to protect sheer beauty.” From inside the torso of the figurine he pulled a small object wrapped in layers of heavy bubble plastic. Delicately, he unwrapped it, and the sound he made was like that of a man undressing a lover.

What DiCarlo saw looked like a gold cigarette lighter, heavily ornate and studded with some sort of stones. To him it was hardly more attractive than the statue that had hidden it.

“Do you know what this is, Mr. DiCarlo?”

“Ah, no, sir.”

“It is an etui.” Finley laughed then, caressing the gold. For that moment, he was supremely happy—a child with a new toy, a man with a new lover. “Which tells you nothing, of course. This small, ornamental case was used to hold manicure sets, or sewing implements, perhaps a buttonhook or a snuff spoon. A pretty little fancy that went out of fashion toward the end of the nineteenth century. This one is more intricate than most, as it's gold, and these stones, Mr. DiCarlo, are rubies. There are initials etched into the base.” Smiling dreamily he turned it over. “It was a gift from Napoleon to his Josephine. And now it belongs to me.”

“That's great, Mr. Finley.” DiCarlo was relieved that he'd brought the right figurine, and that his employer seemed so pleased.

“You think so?” Finley's emerald eyes glittered. “This bauble is only a portion of what is mine, Mr. DiCarlo. Oh, I'm pleased to have it, but it reminds me that my shipment is incomplete. A shipment, I might add, that has taken me more than eight months to accumulate, another two months to have transported. That's nearly a year of my time, which is quite valuable to me, not to mention the expense.” He hefted the ashtray again and swung it through the delicate folds of milady's gown. Thin shards
of porcelain shot like tiny missiles through the air. “You can understand my distress, can you not?”

“Yes, sir.” Cool sweat slipped clammily down DiCarlo's back. “Naturally.”

“Then we'll have to see about getting it back. Sit down, Mr. DiCarlo.”

With an unsteady hand, DiCarlo brushed porcelain splinters off the buttery leather of a chair. He sat cautiously on the edge of his seat.

“The holidays make me magnanimous, Mr. DiCarlo.” Finley took his own seat and continued to caress the etui in intimate little circles. “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. You have plans, I imagine.”

“Well, actually, yes. My family, you see . . .”

“Families.” Finley's face lit up with a smile. “There is nothing like family around the holidays. I have none myself, but that is unimportant. Since you've managed to bring me one small portion of my property, so quickly, I hate to take you away from your family at Christmas.” Keeping the etui trapped between his palms, he folded his hands. “I'll give you until the first of the year. Generous, I know, but as I said, the holidays. They make me sentimental. I'll want everything that is mine by January one—no, no, make it the second.” His smile spread and widened. “I trust you won't disappoint me.”

“No, sir.”

“Naturally, I'll expect progress reports, holiday or no. You can reach me here, or on my private number. Do stay in touch, Mr. DiCarlo. If I don't hear from you at regular intervals, I'd have to come looking for you myself. We wouldn't want that.”

“No, sir.” DiCarlo had an uncomfortable image of being hunted by a rabid wolf. “I'll get right on it.”

“Excellent. Oh, and have Barbara make a copy of this list for me before you go, will you?”

 

Jed couldn't say why he was doing it. He'd had no business going down to the shop that morning in the first place. He
was perfectly content to spend his days working out in the gym, lifting weights in his own apartment, catching up on his reading. God knew what crazy impulse had had him wandering downstairs and somehow volunteering to make Dora's deliveries.