by Nora Roberts
“Hadn’t gotten around to it. You interrupted him.”
“He sees lights on upstairs, he cuts the phone wires. He whacks the security system. But he doesn’t go for the Daum Nancy.”
“The what?”
“Never mind,” Jed snapped, annoyed with himself. “He goes right for the files.”
“Because he’s looking for something.”
“Yeah.” Jed pulled out a cigarette. “But did he get it? And what would anyone look for in the files of a junk shop?”
“Receipts?” Brent offered as he opened his car door.
“Inventory lists, names, addresses.”
“You can take the boy off the force, but you can’t take the force out of the boy.”
“I take a personal interest when somebody shoots at me.”
“Can’t blame you for that. We miss you downtown, Captain.”
Something flickered in Jed’s eyes that might have been grief, then was quickly gone. “The city seems to be hobbling along without me.”
“Listen, Jed—”
“Save it.” He wasn’t in the mood for a lecture, or a pep talk, or a guilt trip. “Let me know what comes through.”
“You’ll be the first.” Brent climbed into the car, rolled down the window. “Oh, and watch your butt, pal. I believe that lady could kick it.”
Jed’s response was a snort. He headed back inside. He wanted to make certain Dora was locked up for the night before he went back downstairs for another look.
Just as an interested civilian, he told himself.
“They’ve cleared out,” he told her when he breezed through her open door. “You can count on Brent. He’s a good detail man.”
“Terrific. Sit down.”
“I’ve got stuff to do. Lock your door.”
“Sit down,” she repeated, and pointed to a chair. “I’m going to clean up that cut.”
“I can do it myself.”
“Don’t you know anything, Skimmerhorn? When you’re wounded defending a woman, she’s honor bound to whip out the antiseptic. If I was wearing a petticoat, I’d have to rip it into bandages.”
Jed skimmed one more look over the glitter of her jumpsuit. “What are you wearing under that?”
“Excellent muscle tone.” Because she was looking forward to it, Dora dragged him over to the chair. “Now you’re supposed to say, ‘Shucks, ma’am, it’s only a scratch.’ ”
“It is.” He smiled thinly. “But it could have been worse.”
“Undoubtedly.” With a whisper of silk, she knelt beside the chair and dabbed at the cut with one of the cotton balls she’d set out. “My sister would say you could have put out your eye. With Lea, everything’s a potential eye poker. She inherited our mother’s worry genes.” Dora soaked another cotton ball and said brightly, “This may sting a bit.”
As the shallow scratch erupted with fire, Jed snagged her wrist. “Goddamn it, what is that?”
“Alcohol.” She fluttered her lashes. “It’ll clean out any grit.”
“Right down to the bone,” Jed muttered.
“Don’t be a baby, Skimmerhorn. Hold still.”
He grimaced as she dabbed again. “You called me by my first name when you were clattering down the steps, screaming hysterically.”
“I never scream hysterically.”
“You did this time.” He grinned wickedly. “ ‘Jed! Jed! Oh, Jed!’ ”
Dora dropped the cotton ball into a shallow enamel bowl. “At the time I thought you were about to be murdered. Unfortunately, I was wrong.” She put a thumb to his chin to push his head to the side, examining the cut. “Do you want a Band-Aid?”
“No.” His eyes gleamed. “Aren’t you going to kiss it?”
“No.” She rose then, started to pick up the bowl, set it down again. “Listen, I’ve got to ask. I know what you’ll say. You’ll say not to worry, that it was just one of those freak things that happen. But I have to ask anyway. Do you think he’ll be back?”
Jed studied her face. There was a strain in her eyes she’d done a good job of hiding up until now. There was little he could, or would, do to alleviate it.
“I don’t know,” he said flatly.
“Great.” Dora closed her eyes, drew a deep breath. “I should have known better than to ask. If you can’t figure out what he was doing here in the first place, how can you tell if he’ll be back or not?”
“Something like that.” He could have lied, Jed told himself, uneasy that her cheeks were pale again. It wouldn’t have been so hard to offer a phony reassurance to give her a peaceful night. Her eyes, when she opened them, were very dark, very tired.
“Look.” He rose, and surprised them both by reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear before snatching his hand back and stuffing it in his pocket. “Look,” he said again. “I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about tonight. What you need to do is go to bed, tune out. Let the cops do their job.”
“Yeah.” It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him to stay, and only part of the reason was fear of being alone. She shook her head, rubbed her hands up and down her arms to warm them. “I’ll be out most of tomorrow—at my sister’s. I’ll leave you the number in case . . . just in case,” she finished.
“Fine. Lock up behind me. Okay?”
“You bet.” She had her hand on the knob when he stepped into the hall. “You too. Lock up, I mean.”
“Sure.” He waited until she’d closed the door, turned the bolts. His lips quirked when he heard the unmistakable sound of a chair scraping across the floor, the rattle of the knob as it was wedged under it. Good thinking, Conroy, he decided, then went down to take another look at the storeroom.
In a pretty Federal townhouse shaded by stately oaks, a well-to-do matron was enjoying a glass of sherry and a showing of Bing Crosby’s White Christmas on her big-screen TV.
At the sound of a quiet footstep behind her, Mrs. Lyle smiled and held up a hand. “Come watch, Muriel,” she invited, addressing her longtime housekeeper. “This is my favorite number.”
She didn’t cry out when the blow came. The delicate crystal shattered against the edge of the coffee table, splattering the Aubusson rug with blood-red sherry.
Somewhere through the haze of pain that left her paralyzed, she heard the crashing of glass and a furious male voice demanding over and over, “Where is the dog? Where is the fucking dog?”
Then she heard nothing at all.
It was midnight when DiCarlo rode the elevator up to his apartment in Manhattan. His arms were laden with boxes he’d copped from the back of a liquor store.
He’d been lucky to find the receipt for the stupid dog, he told himself, and wondered idly if the bullets he’d sprayed up the stairs of the antique shop had hit anything. Or anyone.
Not to worry, he thought. The gun was untraceable. And he was making progress.
He hefted the boxes more comfortably as he walked out of the elevator into the hallway. He had the bronze eagle, the plaster Statue of Liberty, the china dog.
And a partridge in a pear tree, he thought, and chuckled to himself.
“So . . .” Dora snacked on a raw carrot while Lea checked the Christmas goose. “Jed goes racing out after the guy, waving this big gun while I stand there like your typical Hollywood heroine, with my hands clutched at my breasts. You got any dip for these veggies?”
“In the fridge. Thank God you weren’t hurt.” Harassed by the number of pots simmering on the stove, the sound of her children wreaking havoc in the family room and the very real fear that her mother would invade the kitchen at any moment, Lea shuddered. “I’ve been worried for years about your shop being burglarized. I’m the one who convinced you to put in that security system, remember?”
“A lot of good it did me, too.” Dora dunked a spear of broccoli into sour-cream-and-chive dip, then leaned on Lea’s cheery breakfast bar as she nibbled. “Jed said it was Mickey Mouse.”
“Well, really.” Lea paused in her stirring to be indigna
nt. “John’s cousin Ned said it was state-of-the-art.”
“John’s cousin Ned is a jerk. Great dip.” She tried it with cauliflower. “Anyway, the cops came and did all this cop stuff—Dad would have loved the staging—and asked all these questions.” Dora had purposely left out the part about the bullets. It didn’t seem like Christmas conversation. “And it turns out that Jed’s ex-partner is a neighbor of yours.”
“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