by Nora Roberts
“Of course. This will just take a few minutes. Why don’t you help yourself to some coffee while you wait?” Dora gestured to the table that was always set with tea and coffeepots and trays of pretty cookies before she carried both doorstops back to the counter. “Christmas shopping, Skimmerhorn?” she asked as she passed him.
“I need a—what do you call it? Hostess thing.”
“Browse around. I’ll be right with you.”
Jed wasn’t completely sure what he was browsing around in. The packed apartment was only a small taste of the amazing array of merchandise offered in Dora’s Parlor.
There were delicate figurines that made him feel big and awkward, the way he’d once felt in his mother’s sitting room. Still, there was no sense of the formal or untouchable here. Bottles of varying sizes and colors caught the glitter of sunlight and begged to be handled. There were signs advertising everything from stomach pills to boot polish. Tin soldiers arranged in battle lines fought beside old war posters.
He wandered through a doorway and found the next room equally packed. Teddy bears and teapots. Cuckoo clocks and corkscrews. A junk shop, he mused. People might stick a fancy name on it, like “curio shop,” but what it was was junk.
Idly, he picked up a small enameled box decorated with painted roses. Mary Pat would probably like this, he decided.
“Well, Skimmerhorn, you surprise me.” Framed by the doorway, Dora smiled. She gestured toward the box he held as she walked to him. “You show excellent taste. That’s a lovely piece.”
“You could probably put bobby pins or rings into it, right?”
“You probably could. Originally it was used to hold patches. The well-to-do wore them in the eighteenth century, at first to cover smallpox scars, and then just for fashion. That particular one is a Staffordshire, circa 1770.” She looked up from the box, and there was a laugh in her eyes. “It goes for twenty-five hundred.”
“This?” It didn’t fill the cup of his palm.
“Well, it is a George the Third.”
“Yeah, right.” He put it back on the table with the same care he would have used on an explosive device. The fact that he could afford it didn’t make it any less intimidating. “Not quite what I had in mind.”
“That’s no problem. We have something for everyone’s mind. A hostess gift, you said?”
He grunted and scanned the room. Now he was afraid to touch anything. He was back again, painfully back in childhood, in the front parlor of the Skimmerhorn house.
Don’t touch, Jedidiah. You’re so clumsy. You don’t appreciate anything.
He blocked off the memory with its accompanying sensory illusion of the mingled scents of Chanel and sherry.
He didn’t quite block off the scowl. “Maybe I should just pick up some flowers.”
“That’s nice, too. Of course, they don’t last.” Dora was enjoying his look of pure masculine discomfort. “A bottle of wine’s acceptable as well. Not very innovative, but acceptable. Why don’t you tell me a little about our hostess?”
“Why?”
Dora’s smile widened at the suspicion in his voice. “So that I can get a picture of her and help you select something. Is she the athletic, outdoors type, or a quiet homebody who bakes her own bread?”
Maybe she wasn’t trying to make him feel stupid, Jed thought, but she was succeeding just the same. “Look, she’s my partner—ex-partner’s wife. She’s a trauma nurse. She’s got a couple of kids and likes to read books.”
“What sort of books?”
“I don’t know.” Why the hell hadn’t he just gone by the florist?
“All right, then.” Taking pity on him, she patted his arm. “It sounds to me as though we have a busy, dedicated woman. A compassionate and a romantic one. A hostess gift,” she mused, tapping her finger to her lip. “It shouldn’t be too personal. Something for the house.” With a nod, she turned away and walked to a corner that was fashioned to resemble an old-fashioned pantry. “I think this would do nicely.” Dora took down a footed wooden jar trimmed in brass.
Jed frowned over it. His parents hadn’t gone for novelty antiques. “What’s it—like for cookies?”
“How clever of you.” Dora beamed at him. “It’s a biscuit jar. Victorian. This one’s oak from about 1870. A practical and ornamental gift, and at forty dollars, it won’t cost you more than a dozen long-stem roses or a good French wine.”
“Okay. I guess she’d get a kick out of it.”
“See? That wasn’t so painful. Can I help you with anything else? A last-minute Christmas gift?”
“No, that’s it.” He followed her back into the main room. The place smelled—cozy, he decided. Like apples. There was music playing softly. He recognized a movement from The Nutcracker and was surprised that he suddenly felt relaxed. “Where do you get all this stuff?”
“Oh, here and there,” she said over her shoulder. “Auctions, flea markets, estate sales.”
“And you actually make a living out of this.”
Amused, she took a box from behind the counter and unfolded it. “People collect, Skimmerhorn. Often they don’t even realize it. Didn’t you ever have marbles as a boy, or comic books, baseball cards?”
“Sure.” He’d had to hide them, but he’d had them.
She lined the box with tissue, working quickly, competently. “And didn’t you ever trade your cards?” She glanced up to find him staring down at her hands.
“Sure I did,” he murmured. His gaze lifted, locked on hers. He’d felt something watching her work that had gone straight to the gut like a hot arrow. “Just like you played with dolls.”
“Actually, I didn’t” She couldn’t quite manage a smile. For a moment there, he’d looked as though he could’ve taken her in one quick bite. “I never liked them much. I preferred imaginary playmates, because you could change them into any character you wanted at the time.” With more care than necessary she fit the lid with its gold-embossed DORA’S PARLOR onto the box. “What I was getting at is that most children collect and trade. Some people never grow out of it. Shall I gift-wrap this for you? There’s no extra charge.”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
He shifted, then moved down the counter. Not that he was interested in what was displayed there, but to give himself some breathing room. The sexual tug he’d felt wasn’t new, but it was the first time he’d experienced it because a woman had pretty hands. And huge brown eyes, he added. Then there was that smile, he thought. She always looked as though she was laughing at some secret joke.
Obviously he’d been celibate too long if he was attracted to a woman who laughed at him.
To pass the time he picked up a baseball-shaped item with a hole in the top. The words “Mountain Dew” were painted on the side. Curious, Jed turned it over in his hand. He didn’t think it could be some sort of odd drinking cup for the soft drink.
“Interesting, isn’t it?” Dora set the gaily wrapped package in front of him.
“I was wondering what it was.”
“A match striker.” She put her hands over his on the bowl and guided his thumb to the rough edge. “You put the matches in the top, then light them on the side. Mountain Dew was a whiskey. This is from the late nineteenth century.” She caught the glimmer of a smile on his face. “Do you like it?”
“It’s different.”
“I’m very fond of the different.” She kept her hands warm over his for another moment. “Take it. Consider it a housewarming gift.”
The inexplicable charm the object had for him dimmed considerably. “Hey, I don’t think—”
“It’s not valuable, monetarily. A neighborly gesture, Skimmerhorn. Don’t be snotty.”
“Well, when you’re so sweet about it.”
She laughed then and gave his hand a quick squeeze. “I hope your friend likes her gift.” She walked away then to help another customer, but she watched out of the corner of her eye as Jed left the shop.
An unusual man, she mused. And, of cou
rse, the unusual was her stock-in-trade.
DiCarlo raced along the Van Wyck toward the airport, dialing his car phone with one hand and steering with the other. “DiCarlo,” he stated, flipping the phone to speaker. “Get me Mr. Finley.” With his nerves bubbling, he checked his watch. He’d make it, he assured himself. He had to make it.
“Mr. DiCarlo.” Finley’s voice filled the car. “You have good news, I assume.”
“I tracked it all down, Mr. Finley.” DiCarlo forced his words into a calm, businesslike tone. “I found out just what happened. Some idiot clerk at Premium switched the shipments. Sent ours to Virginia. I’ll have it straightened out in no time.”
“I see.” There was a long pause. DiCarlo’s bowels turned to ice water. “And what is your definition of ‘no time’?”
“Mr. Finley, I’m on my way to the airport right now. I’ve got a flight booked into Dulles and a rental car waiting. I’ll be in Front Royal before five east coast time. I have the name and address where the shipment was misdirected.” His voice weakened. “I’m handling all of this at my own expense, Mr. Finley.”
“That’s wise of you, Mr. DiCarlo, as I don’t wish for your mistake to cost me more than it already has.”
“No, sir. And you have my word that this mistake will be corrected expediently.”
“Very well. I’ll expect you to contact me when you reach your destination. Naturally, I’ll want the clerk fired.”
“Naturally.”
“And, Mr. DiCarlo? You do know how important that merchandise is to me, don’t you? You will use any means necessary to recover it. Any means at all.”
“Understood.” When the connection broke, DiCarlo smiled grimly. The way this mess was screwing up his holiday, he was more than ready to use any means. Any means at all.
CHAPTER
FOUR
“This is quite a mix-up, isn’t it?” While he asked this rhetorical—and to DiCarlo, unamusing—question, Sherman Porter rummaged through his dented file cabinet.
“Guess we’d have caught it here, but we had ourselves an auction going on,” Porter continued as he carelessly destroyed the filing system. “Hell of a turnout, too. Moved a lot of inventory. Shitfire, where does that woman put things?”
Porter opened another file drawer. “Don’t know how I’m supposed to find anything with Helen off for a week visiting her daughter in D.C. You just did catch me. We’ll be closing till New Year’s.”
DiCarlo looked at his watch. Six-fifteen. His time was running out. As for patience, even the dregs of that had vanished. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear, Mr. Porter. The return of this merchandise is vitally important to my employer.”
“Oh, you made that clear. A man wants what’s his, after all. Here now, this looks promising.” Porter unearthed a short stack of neatly typed sheets. “See, Helen’s listed all the merchandise we auctioned, the lot numbers, selling price. Woman’s a jewel.”
“May I see that?”
“Sure, sure.” After handing over the papers, Porter pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. He took out a bottle of Four Roses and a couple of dusty jelly glasses. He offered DiCarlo a sheepish grin. “Join me in a drink? It’s after hours now, and it keeps the cold away.”
DiCarlo eyed the bottle with distaste. “No.”
“Well, I’ll just help myself then.”
DiCarlo took out his own list and compared. It was all there, he noted, torn between relief and despair. All sold. The china hound, the porcelain figurine, the abstract painting, the bronze eagle and the stuffed parrot. The enormous and ugly plaster replica of the Statue of Liberty was gone, as well as a pair of mermaid bookends.
Inside his pocket, DiCarlo had another list. On it were descriptions of what had been carefully and expensively hidden in each piece of merchandise. An engraved Gallae vase valued at nearly $100,000, a pair of netsukes stolen from a private collection in Austria and easily worth six figures. An antique sapphire brooch, reputed to have been worn by Mary, Queen of Scots.
And the list went on. Despite the chill of the room, DiCarlo’s skin grew clammy. Not one single item remained in Porter’s possession. Sold, DiCarlo thought, all sold.
“There’s nothing left,” he said weakly.
“Said we had a good turnout.” Pleased with the memory, Porter poured another drink.
“I need this merchandise.”
“So you said, but that shipment came in just minutes before we started the auction, and there wasn’t time to do an inventory. Way I figure it, your boss and I could sue the pants right off Premium.” Because the idea held appeal, Porter smiled and drank again. “Bet they’d settle on a nice tidy sum, too.”
“Mr. Finley wants his property, not a lawsuit.”
“Up to him, I guess.” With a shrug, Porter finished off his liquor. “Helen keeps a mailing list of our customers. Pays to send out notices when we’re having an auction. Best I can say is you go through it, match up the names and addresses with the names she’s got there next to the stuff we sold. You can get in touch, explain things. Of course, you’ll return my merchandise. I paid for it, right?”
It would take days to round up Finley’s stock, DiCarlo thought, sickened. Weeks. “Naturally,” he lied.
Porter grinned. The way he figured it, he’d already sold one lot. Now he’d sell another—all for the price of one.
“The mailing list?”
“Oh, sure, sure.” Comfortably buzzed on Four Roses, Porter shuffled through a drawer and came up with a metal box full of index cards. “Go ahead, take your time. I’m not in any hurry.”
Twenty minutes later, DiCarlo left Porter comfortably drunk. He had one bright pinpoint of hope. The porcelain figurine was still in Front Royal, the property of a Thomas Ashworth, antique dealer. DiCarlo grasped hold of the possibility that regaining possession of one piece quickly would placate Finley and buy time.
As he drove through light traffic to Ashworth’s shop, DiCarlo worked out his strategy. He would go in, explain the mishap, keeping it light, friendly. Since Ashworth had paid only $45 for the figure, DiCarlo was prepared to buy it back and include a reasonable profit for the dealer.
It could all be handled quickly, painlessly. Once he had the figurine, he would phone Finley and tell him that everything was under control. With any luck, Finley would be satisfied to have Winesap contact the rest of the list, and DiCarlo would be back in New York to enjoy Christmas.
The scenario brightened his mood to the extent that DiCarlo was humming as he parked his car by the curb in front of Ashworth’s shop. It wasn’t until he was out of the car and across the sidewalk that his easy smile faded.
CLOSED
The large cardboard sign on the glass-fronted door glared back at him.
DiCarlo was at the door in two strides, rattling the knob, pounding on the glass. It couldn’t be closed. With his breath coming quickly, he raced to the wide display window, cupping his hands beside his face as he pressed it to the glass. He could see nothing but shadows and his own misery.
Finley would accept no excuses, he knew. Would tolerate nothing so vague as simple bad luck.
Then, as his lips peeled back in a snarl, DiCarlo saw the porcelain figure of a man and woman in ball dress, embracing lightly.
DiCarlo clenched his gloved hands into fists. He wasn’t about to let a lock and a sheet of glass stop him.
The first step was to move his car. DiCarlo circled the block slowly, instincts humming as he kept an eye out for cruising patrol cars. He parked two blocks away. From his glove compartment he took what he thought he’d need. A flashlight, a screwdriver, his revolver. He slipped them all into the pockets of his cashmere coat.
This time he didn’t approach the shop from the front, but headed up a side street with the firm, unhurried steps of a man who knew where he was headed. But as he walked, his eyes darted from side to side, watchful, wary.
It was a small town, and on a cold, blustery night most of its citizens were home enjoying
the evening meal. DiCarlo passed no one as he walked toward the rear entrance of Ashworth’s shop.
Nor did he spot any evidence of a security system. Moving quickly, he used the screwdriver to jimmy the door. The sound of splintering wood made him smile. He’d nearly forgotten the simple pleasure of breaking and entering during his years of corporate thievery. DiCarlo slipped inside, shut the door behind him. He flicked on his flashlight, shielding the beam with his hand as he swung it right and left. He’d entered through what appeared to be a small, cramped office. Because he would need to cover his tracks, DiCarlo had decided to make the break-in appear to be a random burglary. Impatient with the time he needed to waste, he pulled open drawers, upended contents.
He chuckled to himself as he spotted a plastic bank envelope. It looked as though his luck had changed. A quick flip through the small bills inside and he estimated the take to be about $500. Satisfied, he stuffed the money into his pocket and used the light to guide him into the main shop.
It seemed to DiCarlo that a little vandalism was just the touch he needed. He smashed a milk-glass lamp and a Capo di Monte vase at random. Then, because it felt so good, he kicked over a table that held a collection of demitasses. On impulse, and because it had been years since he’d had the thrill of stealing, he dropped a few cloisonné boxes into his pockets.
He was grinning when he snatched up the figurine. “Gotcha, baby,” he murmured, then froze as light flooded into the shop from a stairway to his right. Swearing under his breath, DiCarlo squeezed himself between a rosewood armoire and a brass pole lamp.
“I’ve called the police.” An elderly man wearing a gray flannel robe and carrying a nine-iron inched down the steps. “They’re on their way, so you’d best stay right where you are.”
DiCarlo could hear the age in the voice, and the fear. For a moment he was baffled as he smelled roasted chicken. The old man had an apartment upstairs, DiCarlo realized, and cursed himself for crashing through the shop like an amateur.
But there wasn’t time for regrets. Tucking the figurine under his arm like a football, he hurtled toward Ashworth, as he had once hurtled down midtown Fifth Avenue with elderly matrons’ Gucci bags stuffed in his jacket.