Hidden Riches (11 page)

“Oh?” Lea chewed her knuckle as she basted her candied yams.

“Carly Chapman’s father. She goes to school with Missy.”

“Carly?” While she ran through her daughter’s friends, Lea lifted a lid and sniffed. “Oh, yeah. Brent and Mary Pat. We carpool.”

“So I hear.” Dora helped herself to a glass of the wine Lea had breathing on the counter. “Here’s the good part. They’re going to question Andrew.”

“You’re kidding! Andrew?”

“Jilted accountant seeks revenge by destroying woman’s tax files.” Dora shrugged and passed a glass of wine to her sister. “Makes as much sense as anything. When’s dinner?”

“Twenty minutes. Why don’t we take what you’ve left of my crudités out. If we can keep Mom busy for—” She broke off, swore lightly under her breath as Trixie Conroy made her entrance.

Trixie always made an entrance, whether it was onto a stage or into the corner market. She’d dressed for the simple family dinner in a flowing caftan of bleeding colors that trailed fringe from its sweeping hem and draping sleeves. The material billowed theatrically around her willowy form. Her hair, cropped gamine short, was a bold, fire-engine red. Her face, milk-pale and unlined, thanks to religious pampering and one discreet lift, was striking. The soft blue eyes Lea had inherited were lavishly lashed, the full, sensuous mouth lushly red.

She breezed into the kitchen, trailing silks and her signature scent—one ripe with woodsy undertones.

“Darlings!” Her voice was as dramatic as the rest of her, a husky whisper that could easily carry to the last row in any theater. “It’s so lovely to see my two girls together.” She took a deep sniff of the air. “Oh, and those glorious aromas. I do hope you’re not overheating my meatballs, Ophelia.”

“Ah . . .” Lea sent Dora a desperate look and was met by a shrug. “No, of course not.” Lea hadn’t heated them at all, but had stuck them under the sink with hopes of palming them off on the dog later. “Mom, did you know . . . they’re green.”

“Naturally.” Trixie buzzed around the stove, clanging lids. “I dyed them myself in honor of the season. Perhaps
we should put them out now, as an appetizer.”

“No. I think we should . . .” Since she couldn’t think of a good ruse, Lea sacrificed her sister. “Mom, did you know someone broke into Dora’s shop?”

“Damn it, Lea.”

Lea ignored the muttered curse and barreled ahead. “Last night.”

“Oh, my baby. Oh, my lamb.” Trixie rushed across the kitchen to clasp Dora’s face between her heavily ringed hands. “Are you hurt?”

“Of course not.”

“Why don’t you take Mom in the other room, Dora? Sit down and tell her all about it.”

“Yes, yes, you must.” Trixie gripped Dora’s hand and dragged her toward the doorway. “You should have called me the minute it happened. I would have been there in the blink of an eye. My poor little darling. Quentin! Quentin, our daughter was robbed.”

Dora had time for one speedy glare over her shoulder before she was yanked into the fray.

The Bradshaw family room was in chaos. Toys were strewn everywhere, making the practical buff-colored carpet an obstacle course. There were shouts and yips as a remote control police cruiser, operated by a steely-eyed Michael, terrorized the family dog, Mutsy. Will, looking very New York in a dark silk shirt and paisley tie, entertained Missy with bawdy numbers on the spinet. John and Richie were glassy-eyed over a Nintendo game, and Quentin, well plied with eggnog, boisterously kibitzed.

“Quentin.” Trixie’s stage voice froze all action. “Our child has been threatened.”

Unable to resist, Will played a melodramatic riff on the piano. Dora wrinkled her nose at him.

“I wasn’t threatened, Mom.” Dora gave her mother a comforting pat, eased her into a chair and handed over her glass of wine. “The shop was broken into,” she explained.
“It didn’t amount to much, really. They didn’t get anything. Jed scared them off.”

“I had a feeling about him.” Quentin tapped the side of his nose. “A sixth sense, if you will. Were there fisticuffs?”

“No, Jed chased him away.”

“I’d’ve shot him dead.” Richie leaped onto the couch and fired an imaginary automatic weapon. “I told you.”

“So you did.”

“Richie, don’t stand on the furniture,” John ordered automatically. “Dora, you called the police?”

“Yes. And it’s all in the hands of Philadelphia’s finest.” She scooped up Richie herself. “And the investigating officer is the father of a really, really good friend of yours, frog face. Jody Chapman.”

“Jody Chapman!” Richie made gagging noises and clutched his throat.

“She sends her love.” Dora fluttered her lashes and smacked her lips. The resulting din of groans and shrieks had her convinced the crisis had passed.

“Willowby!” Trixie cut through the noise with one word and a raised hand. “You’ll stay at Isadora’s tonight. I won’t feel safe unless I know a man’s keeping watch.”

“Mother.” It was enough to make Dora take back her wine. “I, on behalf of all feminists, am ashamed of you.”

“Social and political ideals pale when it comes to the welfare of my child.” Trixie gave a regal nod. “Will, you’ll stay with your sister.”

“No problem.”

“Well, I have a problem,” Dora cut in. “He leaves shaving gunk in the sink, and he makes long, obscene phone calls to his women in New York.”

“I use my calling card.” Will grinned. “And you wouldn’t know they were obscene if you didn’t listen.”

“Your mother knows best.” Quentin rose to help himself to more eggnog. Tonight he looked trim and dapper in a starched collar and a derby. He detoured to kiss his wife’s
hand. “I’ll go by the shop myself tomorrow and take stock of the situation. Don’t worry your pretty head, my sweet.”

“Talk about obscene,” Will mumbled, then grimaced. “What is that stench?”

“Dinner,” Lea announced, swinging through the kitchen door. She smiled grimly at her mother. “Sorry, darling, I seem to have burned your meatballs.”

A block away, Jed was trying to ease himself out the door. He’d enjoyed Christmas dinner at the Chapmans’ more than he’d anticipated. It was hard not to get a kick out of the kids, who were still wide-eyed and enthusiastic over their Christmas loot. Impossible not to relax with the scents of pine and turkey and apple pie sweetening the air. And there was the simple fact that he liked Brent and Mary Pat as people, as a couple.

And the longer he stayed in their comfortable home, the more awkward he felt. There was no way to avoid comparing the homey family scene—a fire crackling in the hearth, kids playing on the rug—with his own miserable childhood memories of the holiday.

The shouting matches. Or worse, far worse, the frigid, smothering silences. The year his mother had smashed all the china against the dining room wall. The year his father had shot out the crystal drops on the foyer chandelier with his .25.

Then there had been the Christmas Elaine hadn’t come home at all, only to turn up two days later with a split lip and a black eye. Had that been the year he’d been arrested for shoplifting in Wanamakers? No, Jed remembered. That had been a year later—when he’d been fourteen.

Those were the good old days.

“At least you can take some of this food home with you,” Mary Pat insisted. “I don’t know what I’ll do with it all.”

“Be a pal,” Brent put in, patting his wife’s bottom as he moved past her to pop the top on a beer. “You don’t
take it, I’ll be eating turkey surprise for a month. Want another?”

Jed shook his head at the beer. “No, I’m driving.”

“You really don’t have to go so soon,” Mary Pat complained.

“I’ve been here all day,” he reminded her, and because she was one of the few people he felt relaxed with, kissed her cheek. “Now I’m going home to see if I can work off some of those mashed potatoes and gravy.”

“You never put on an ounce. It makes me sick.” She heaped leftovers into a Tupperware container. “Why don’t you tell me more about this gorgeous landlord of yours?”

“She’s not gorgeous. She’s okay.”

“Brent said gorgeous.” Mary Pat sent her husband a narrow look. He only lifted his shoulders. “Sexy, too.”

“That’s because she gave him cookies.”

“If she’s Lea Bradshaw’s sister, she must be more than okay.” Mary Pat filled another container with generous slices of pie. “Lea’s stunning—even first thing in the morning with a bunch of squalling kids in the car. The parents are actors, you know. Theater,” Mary Pat added, giving the word a dramatic punch. “I’ve seen the mother, too.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d like to look like that when I grow up.”

“You look fine, hon,” Brent assured her.

“Fine.” Shaking her head, Mary Pat sealed the containers.

“Does he say gorgeous? Does he say sexy?”

“I’ll say it.”

“Thank you, Jed. Why don’t you bring the landlord over sometime? For dinner, or drinks?”

“I pay her rent; I don’t socialize with her.”

“You chased a bad guy for her,” Mary Pat pointed out.

“That was reflex. I gotta go.” He gathered up the food she’d pressed on him. “Thanks for dinner.”

With her arm hooked around Brent’s waist, Mary Pat waved goodbye to Jed’s retreating headlights. “You know, I might just drop by that shop.”

“You mean snoop around, don’t you?”

“Whatever it takes.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “I’d like to get a look at this gorgeous, sexy, single landlord of his.”

“He won’t appreciate it.”

“We’ll see. He needs someone in his life.”

“He needs to come back to work.”

“So we’ll double-team him.” She turned, lifting her mouth for a kiss. “He won’t have a chance.”

In LA Finley dined on pressed duck and quail eggs. Joining him in his mammoth dining room was a stunning blonde, green-eyed, slenderly built. She spoke three languages and had an excellent knowledge of art and literature. In addition to her beauty and intelligence, she was nearly as wealthy as Finley. His ego demanded all three attributes in a companion.

As she sipped her champagne, he opened the small, elegantly wrapped box she’d brought.

“So thoughtful of you, my dear.” He set the lid aside, pausing in anticipation.

“I know how you enjoy beautiful things, Edmund.”

“Indeed I do.” He flattered her with a warm look before reaching into the tissue paper. He lifted out a small ivory carving of a kirin, cradling it gently, lovingly in his palm. His deep, appreciative sigh whispered on the air.

“You admire it every time you dine with me, so I thought it would be the perfect Christmas gift.” Pleased with his reaction, she laid her hand over his. “It seemed more personal to give you something from my own collection.”

“It’s exquisite.” His eyes gleamed as he studied it. “And, as you told me, one of a kind.”

“Actually, it seems I was mistaken about that.” She picked up her glass again and missed the sudden spasm in his fingers. “I was able to obtain its twin a few weeks ago.” She laughed lightly. “Don’t ask me how, as it came from a museum.”

“It’s not unique.” His pleasure vanished like smoke, replaced by the bitter fire of disappointment. “Why would you assume I would wish for something common?”

The change in tone had her blinking in surprise. “Edmund, it’s still what it is. A beautiful piece of exceptional workmanship. And extremely valuable.”

“Value is relative, my dear.” As he watched her, cooleyed, his fingers curled around the delicate sculpture. Tighter, tighter, until the carving snapped with a sound like a gunshot. When she cried out in distress, he smiled again. “It seems to be damaged. What a pity.” He set the broken pieces aside, picked up his wine. “Of course, if you were to give me the piece from your collection, I would truly value it. It is, after all, one of a kind.”

W
hen Jed knocked on Dora’s door a little after nine on the day after Christmas, the last thing he expected was to hear a man’s voice saying wait a damn minute.

There was a thud, a curse.

Will, a flowered sheet wrapped around his thin frame like a toga, and favoring the toe he’d smashed against the Pembroke table, opened the door to an unfriendly sneer.

“If you’re selling anything,” he said, “I hope it’s coffee.”

She sure could pick them, Jed thought nastily. First a pin-striped accountant with overactive glands, now a skinny kid barely out of college.

“Isadora,” Jed said, and showed his teeth.

“Sure.” Mindful of the trailing sheet, Will moved back so that Jed could step inside. “Where the hell is she?” he
muttered. “Dora!” His voice echoed richly off the walls and ceiling.

The kid had lungs, Jed decided, then noticed, intrigued, the tangle of pillows and blankets on the sofa.

“You’re not getting in here until I dry my hair.” Dora stepped out of the bathroom, dressed in a terrycloth robe and armed with a hand-held hair dryer. “You can just—oh.” She stopped, spotting Jed. “Good morning.”

“I need to talk to you for a minute.”

“All right.” She combed her fingers through her damp hair. “You met my brother?”

Brother, Jed thought, annoyed with himself for the quick, unquashable sense of relief. “No.”

“The guy in the sheet is Will. Will, the guy who needs a shave is Jed, from across the hall.”

“The ex-cop who chased off the burglar.” Will’s sleep-glazed eyes cleared. “Nice to meet you. I played a drug dealer once, in a Sly Stallone film? Got killed in the first reel, but it was a great experience.”

“I bet.”

“Here.” Dora passed Will the hair dryer. “You can use the shower. I’ll make the coffee, but you have to make breakfast.”

“Deal.” He headed off, trailing flowered sheets.

“My mother thought I needed a man in the house after the break-in,” Dora explained. “Will was the only one available. We can talk in the kitchen.”

It was the same efficient galley setup as his own, but was obviously more well used, and certainly more organized. She chose what Jed now recognized as a biscuit tin and scooped coffee beans out and into a grinder before she spoke again.

“So how was your Christmas?”

“Fine. I’ve got a guy coming by around noon to hook up a new security system. One that works.”

Dora paused. The scent of ground coffee and her shower filled the room and made Jed’s juices swim. “Excuse me?”

“He’s a friend of mine. He knows what he’s doing.”

“A friend,” she repeated, going back to her grinding.

“First, I must say I’m amazed you have any. Second, I suppose you expect me to be grateful for your incredible gall.”

“I live here, too. I don’t like being shot at.”

“You might have discussed it with me.”

“You weren’t around.” He waited while she put a kettle on to boil. “You need a couple of real locks on the doors. I can pick them up at the hardware.”

With her lips pursed in thought, Dora measured coffee into a filtered cone. “I’m debating whether to be amused, annoyed or impressed.”

“I’ll bill you for the locks.”

That decided her. Her lips curved up, then the smile turned into a quick, throaty laugh. “Okay, Skimmerhorn. You go ahead and make our little world safe and sound. Anything else?”

“I figured I might measure for those shelves you want.”

She ran her tongue around her teeth, reached around him for the wicker basket of oranges. “Getting tired of being a man of leisure?” When he said nothing, she sliced through an orange with a wicked-looking knife. “I’ll show you what I have in mind after breakfast. As it happens, we’re not opening until noon today.” After slicing half a dozen oranges, she put the halves into a clunky-looking device that squeezed out the juice. “Why don’t you set the table?”

“For what?”

“Breakfast. Will makes terrific crepes.” Before he could answer, the kettle shrilled. Dora poured boiling water over the coffee. The smell was all it took.

“Where do you keep your plates?”

“First cupboard.”

“One thing,” he said as he opened the cabinet door. “You might want to put some clothes on.” He sent her
a slow smile that had her throat clicking shut. “The sight of your damp, half-naked body might send me into a sexual frenzy.”

It didn’t amuse her at all to have her own words tossed back in her face. Dora poured herself a cup of coffee and walked away.

“Smells good,” Will decided, strolling in now wearing black jeans and a sweater. His hair, a few shades lighter than Dora’s, had been blow-dried into artful disarray. He looked like an ad for Ralph Lauren. “Dora makes great coffee. Hey, would you mind switching on the tube? CNN, maybe. I haven’t heard what’s happening out there for a couple of days.” Will poured both himself and Jed a cup before rolling up his sleeves.

“Damn you, Will!”

Dora’s voice made her brother wince, grin. “I forgot to wash out the sink,” he explained to Jed. “She really hates to find shaving cream glopped in it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind if it ever becomes an issue.”

“It’s all right for her to hang underwear everyplace though.” He pitched his voice to carry out of the kitchen and through the bathroom door, adding just a dollop of sarcasm for flavor. “Growing up with two sisters, I never went into the bathroom without fighting my way through a jungle of panty hose.”

While he spoke, Will measured ingredients and stirred with careless finesse. He caught Jed’s eye and grinned again. “We’re all great cooks,” he said. “Lea, Dora and me. It was self-defense against years of takeout and TV dinners. So about this burglary thing.” Will went on without breaking stride. “Do you think it’s anything to worry about?”

“I always worry when somebody shoots at me. I’m funny that way.”

“Shoot?” Will’s hand hovered an inch above the edge of the bowl, the egg he’d just cracked dripping inside. “What do you mean ‘shoot’?”

“A gun. Bullets.” Jed sipped his coffee. “Bang.”

“Jesus, Jesus. She didn’t say anything about shooting.” Still carrying the dripping eggshell, he dashed into the living room and down the short hall and jerked open the bathroom door.

Dora nearly poked her eye out with her eyeliner. “Damn it, Will.”

“You didn’t say anything about shooting. Christ, Dory, you made it sound like a joke.”

She sighed, tapped the eye pencil on the lip of the pedestal sink and gave Jed a hard stare over Will’s shoulder. She should have looked silly with one eye lined and the other naked. Instead she looked sulky, sexy and steamed.

“Thanks loads, Skimmerhorn.”

“Anytime, Conroy.”

“Don’t blame him.” Incensed, Will took Dora by the shoulders and shook. “I want to know exactly what happened. And I want to know now.”

“Then ask the big-nosed cop.” She gave Will a shove. “I’m busy,” she said, and shut the bathroom door, deliberately turned the lock.

“Isadora, I want answers.” Will hammered on the door. “Or I’m calling Mom.”

“You do, and I’ll tell her about your weekend on Long Island with the stripper.”

“Performance artist,” he muttered, but turned toward Jed. “You,” he said, “you fill me in while I finish making breakfast.”

“There’s not that much to tell.” There was a sick feeling in Jed’s gut. It didn’t come from running over the events of Christmas Eve while Will whipped up apple crepes. It came from watching the brother and sister together, in seeing the concern and anger on Will’s face—emotions that came from a deeply rooted love, not simply from family loyalty.

“And that’s it?” Will demanded.

“What?” Jed forced himself back to the present.

“That’s it? Some joker breaks in, messes with the files,
takes a couple of potshots at you and runs away.”

“More or less.”

“Why?”

“That’s what the police are paid to find out.” Jed helped himself to a second cup of coffee. “Look, there’s a new security system going in this afternoon. And new locks. She’ll be safe enough.”

“What kind of a cop were you?” Will asked. “A beat type, a narc, what?”

“That’s irrelevant, isn’t it? I’m not a cop now.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Will trailed off, frowning down at the crepes he scooped onto a flower-blue platter. “Skimmerhorn? That’s what she called you, right? Kind of name sticks in the mind. I remember something from a few months ago. I’m a news junkie.” Will rattled it around in his mind, as he might lines long ago memorized. “Captain, right? Captain Jedidiah Skimmerhorn. You’re the one who blew away Donny Speck, the drug lord. ‘Millionaire cop in shoot-out with drug baron,’ ” Will remembered. “You made a lot of headlines.”

“And headlines end up lining bird cages.”

Will would have pressed, but he remembered more. The assassination of Captain Skimmerhorn’s sister with a car bomb. “I guess anyone who could take out a top-level creep like Speck ought to be able to look out for my big sister.”

“She can look out for herself,” Dora announced. With a juice pitcher in one hand, Dora answered the ringing kitchen phone. “Hello? Yes, Will’s right here. Just a minute.” Dora fluttered her lashes. “Marlene.”

“Oh.” Will scooped two crepes onto his plate and gathered up his fork. “This might take a while.” After taking the phone from his sister, he leaned against the wall. “Hello, gorgeous.” His voice had dropped in pitch and was as smooth as new cream. “Baby, you know I missed you. I haven’t thought of anything else. When I get back tonight I’ll show you just how much.”

“Sick,” Dora muttered.

“Why didn’t you tell him the whole story?”

Dora shrugged, kept her voice low. “I didn’t see any need to worry my family. They tend to be dramatic under the best of circumstances. If my mother finds out I’ve got a stomach virus, she immediately diagnoses malaria and starts calling specialists. Can you imagine what she’d have done if I’d told her someone shot holes in my wall?”

Jed shook his head, savoring the crepes.

“She’d have called the CIA, hired two bulky bodyguards named Bubba and Frank. As it was, she stuck me with Will.”

“He’s all right,” Jed said just as Will made kissy noises into the phone and hung up. Before he’d taken two steps, the phone rang again.

“Hello.” Will’s eyes gleamed. “Heather, darling. Of course I missed you, baby. I haven’t been able to think of anything else. I’ll get everything straightened out by tomorrow night and show you just how much.”

“Nice touch,” Jed said, and grinned into his coffee.

“You would think so. Since he’s busy making love through AT& T, I’m turning off the television.” She rose and had nearly tapped the Off button when a bulletin stopped her.

“There are still no leads in the Christmas tragedy in Society Hill,” the reporter announced. “Prominent socialite Alice Lyle remains in a coma this morning as a result of an attack during an apparent burglary in her home sometime December twenty-fourth. Mrs. Lyle was found unconscious. Muriel Doyle, Lyle’s housekeeper, was pronounced dead at the scene. Both Mrs. Lyle and her housekeeper were discovered by Mrs. Lyle’s niece Christmas morning. Alice Lyle, the widow of Harold T. Lyle of Lyle Enterprises, remains in critical condition. A Philadelphia police spokesperson states that a full investigation is under way.”

“Oh God.” Hugging her elbows, Dora turned back to Jed.
“I know her. She was in the shop before Christmas, buying a gift for her niece.”

“It’s a wealthy neighborhood,” Jed said carefully. “Lyle’s a prominent name. Burglaries can turn ugly.”

“She bought a couple of doorstops,” Dora remembered. “And she was telling me how her niece was expecting a baby.” She shuddered. “How awful.”

“You can’t take it inside.” Jed got up to turn off the television himself.

“Is that what they teach you in cop school?” she snapped, then immediately shook her head. “Sorry. That’s why I never listen to the damn news. The only thing I read in the paper are the classified section and the comics.” She pushed her hair back and struggled to shake off the mood. “I think I’ll go down and open up early, leave Will to clean up the mess before he goes back to New York.”

This time he didn’t resist the urge to brush his knuckles along her jawline. The skin there was as soft as rose petals. “It’s tough when they’re not strangers.”

“It’s tough when they are.” She lifted a hand, touched his wrist. “Is that why you quit?”

He dropped his hand. “No. I’ll head out to the hardware. Thanks for breakfast.”

Dora merely sighed when the door closed behind him. “Will, when you finish your obscene call, do the dishes. I’m going down to the shop.”

“I’m finished.” He popped out of the kitchen and snagged the juice. “You’re full of secrets, aren’t you, Dory? How come you didn’t tell me that your tenant was the big bad cop who took down Donny Speck?”

“Who’s Donny Speck?”

“Jeez, what world do you live in?” He nibbled on little bits of crepe while he cleared the table. “Speck ran one of the biggest drug cartels on the east coast—probably the biggest. He was crazy, too; liked to blow people up if they messed with him. Always the same MO—a pipe bomb triggered by the ignition.”

“Jed arrested him?”

“Arrested, hell. He whacked him in a real, old-fashioned gunfight.”

“Killed him?” Dora asked through dry lips. “Is that—is that why he had to leave the force?”

“Shit, I think he got a medal for it. It was all over the news last summer. The fact that he’s the grandson of L. T. Bester, Incorporated, got him a lot of press, too.”

“Bester, Inc. ? As in large quantities of money?”

“None other. Real estate, Dora. Shopping malls. Philadelphia doesn’t have too many loaded cops.”

“That’s ridiculous. If he was loaded, why would he be renting a one-bedroom apartment over a curio shop?”

Will shook his head. “You’re a Conroy and you’re questioning eccentricity?”

“I lost my head a minute.”

“Anyway.” Will filled the sink with hot soapy water. “The way I see the script here, I figure our hero, the wealthy police captain, is taking some downtime. Last summer was pretty hairy. The Speck investigation kept him in the news for months, then when his sister was killed in the car explosion—”